Lines in the Sand
by Seema
Summary: As Voyager approaches the Alpha Quadrant, the crew is faced with a reality that isn't quite what they expected.
1. Default Chapter

Lines in the Sand  
  
  
Character and places belong to Paramount; I'm just taking them out for some exercise.  
  
Voyager has faced the Kazon, the Hirogen, the Borg, Species 8472. Going home should be a piece of cake. or is it?  
  
*****  
  
Twilight  
  
Seven has news.   
  
Whether it's good or otherwise, she won't say.  
Only thing we can deduce is that it's important enough for her to convince Janeway to call a staff meeting, but we can tell the Captain is equally in the dark.  
Seven's sphinx-like expression gives nothing away as she stands at the front of the room, intent on the tricorder in her hand.  
  
Damn, she is good at torture; must run in Borg genetics. B'Elanna, since her return from the Borg, seems to have inherited this particular talent also.  
  
"Come on, Seven," I cajole. "What's going on?"  
  
Seven rewards me with a thin-lipped smile. We could make a list of all of Seven's faults, but indiscretion isn't one of them.   
  
B'Elanna leans over the table and exchanges a less than mysterious look with Chakotay.  
Wherever Seven's concerned, B'Elanna is ready to rumble; while Chakotay may not come out and say anything, he usually takes B'Elanna's back, though in a much nicer and gentlemanly way.  
  
Me, I'm ready to give Seven the benefit of the doubt; she's been playing nicely these days, sharing when appropriate and not talking back. In fact, just the other day, she joined Harry and I in a Captain Proton adventure and actually went along with the story line. Amazing; Seven is rapidly becoming the eighth wonder of the universe.   
  
"All right, Seven," Janeway is reclining, staring up at Seven from beneath her eyelashes.   
"What's going on?"  
  
Seven does her little head tilt, almost annoyed by Janeway's little admonishment.   
  
"Curiosity killed the cat," I offer up.   
  
"There is no cat on Voyager," Seven retorts.  
  
"Tom," Janeway turns her chair to skewer me with a penetrating glare. "Go ahead, Seven."  
  
Seven nods and brings up the view screen. There is Voyager represented by a Starfleet emblem, and around it, nothing but blackness. A second later, the computer pops up curved vectors.  
  
"What are we looking at?" Janeway asks.  
  
"Our projected course and velocity," Seven answers. "If we continue on this trajectory, I estimate we will reach the Alpha Quadrant in approximately seventeen days, eight hours and thirty-two minutes."  
  
"How many seconds?" I ask insolently, earning myself a punch in the shoulder from B'Elanna.  
  
"The Alpha Quadrant," Janeway says, pointedly ignoring me. "Are you saying it just sneaked up on us?"  
  
"No," Seven says. "We omitted one crucial variable in our calculations. I discovered the error and corrected it."  
  
We all lean back in our chairs as if on cue except for Janeway; she is out of her chair and across the room faster than I thought possible. If we could have bottled that kind of speed seven years ago, the Maquis would have made it back in time to continue their guerrilla war against the Cardassians and I would still be cooling my feet in New Zealand, not having spent enough time "rethinking my mistakes."   
  
"How long have we been making this mistake?" Janeway asks in a low voice. I sense that a certain helmsman is about to face the wrath of Janeway, formerly of Borg.  
  
"For the last five months," Seven says.   
  
Ah, that explains it all. Mistakes made during the crazy period when Janeway, Tuvok and Torres were on the Borg cube are automatically forgiven. Or so I hope.  
  
"You're positive?" Janeway asks. "You're not making a mistake?"  
  
After four years, Janeway still hasn't learned; you never ask a Borg if she has made a mistake, but I don't blame her. We've been let down so many times in the past that this particular revelation is almost anticlimactic.  
  
"My calculations are accurate," Seven says. "There is no error."  
  
Again, that odd silence falls over the group. My eyes scan them all. Chakotay is unreadable, but that is no surprise. A photon torpedo could explode three feet from him and he wouldn't blink.   
  
Next to him, Harry looks as he is going to be sick; I don't blame him, I feel the same.  
  
It's odd to feel this way. After seven years meandering and exploring the Delta Quadrant, we are going home. The Alpha Quadrant is a sacred mantra on the lost ship Voyager; it's what keeps the warp core going, the replicators humming and the holodecks running. Hell, it's what keeps us going. The Alpha Quadrant is our raison d'être; without it, we would probably be chopped liver for some Delta Quadrant species.  
  
But being obsessive about returning home and actually getting home - now those are two very different things.  
  
We talk about the Alpha Quadrant loudly, hoping to hide whatever truths we left behind; now it's the day of reckoning and there's much to confess, much to face.  
  
That speaking for myself, of course; I wouldn't be so presumptuous to speak for the rest of Voyager.  
  
It just feels strange, that's all I can say. To finally attain something that seemed so far away. I guess I never really thought we would actually get home.  
  
"Let's double check," Janeway says. "I don't want to take a chance of telling the crew yet; we've had too many disappointments already."  
  
True. Who knows? We could always run into the Caretaker again or maybe discover some rare nebular phenomenon that has to be explored before we could possibly return home and that could possibly fling us somewhere else, say the Epsilon Quadrant (wherever that might be).  
  
You can never count the Delta Quadrant out; she's a harsh mistress and unfortunately for us, a deadly and manipulative one also.  
  
"Keep this quiet for now," Janeway says, sweeping her eyes over all of us. If there is one thing none of us are good at, it's keeping secrets. Twenty holodeck rations say that everyone on Voyager will know, to the second, how far we are from home within thirty minutes.  
Conventional wisdom also puts money on Harry to be the one to spill the beans first.  
  
"Remember," Janeway puts a motherly finger to her lips. "Dismissed."  
  
We spill out of the room, but Chakotay remains behind to talk with Janeway. I often wonder what the two of them talk about. I'm sure some of it is business, but even the most scintillating of conversationalists - which Chakotay is certainly not - would get bored of discussing Voyager day after day.  
  
After all, much as I adore B'Elanna, I get tired of her engines real fast.  
  
"Hey," I say, grabbing B'Elanna by the upper arm.   
  
"What?" she glares at me. I recognize the flash in her eyes and let go. I back away so that I'm up against the corridor wall, making sure there is enough distance between us so I can duck if she lunges at me.  
  
For the life of me, I can't think of what I did wrong this time. My mind quickly scrolls through all possibilities. I haven't been late for a meal in at least a week, I barely have spent any time in Fair Haven and I did not watch the latest episode of "Bonanza" without her.  
  
"Something you want to tell me?" I ask easily.  
  
The tension eases visibly out of B'Elanna's shoulders as she looks quickly up and down the corridor.  
  
"You startled me."  
  
Now that's a bunch of, well, crap. Mostly because B'Elanna has the finely tuned instincts of a saber toothed tiger. She can smell blood and fear a kilometer away and she pounces when you least expect it. I don't try to surprise her because she has the uncanny ability to detect when   
I'm hiding something, whether it's good or bad.  
  
"You're upset," I say.  
  
"No," she shoots back. "Not upset. You're making a big deal of nothing, Tom."  
  
"You just bit my head off and while you're still chewing on my cranium, I want to know what got you so riled up."  
  
B'Elanna actually smiles.  
  
"Sorry," she says sincerely.  
  
"So?"  
  
She starts walking and I trot along behind her.   
  
"I'm just thinking about everything that needs to be done before we get back to the Alpha   
Quadrant."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"I don't know. I told you I was thinking about it."  
  
"If it's the warp core, you can get a new one in the Alpha Quadrant," I tell her. "I hear they actually manufacture them. You don't need to hold it together with bubble gum and spit anymore."  
  
"Huh?" she pauses. "Bubble gum and spit?"  
  
I offer her a cheeky smile.  
  
"I want to make sure that Voyager looks good when we get home, that's all. I want to make sure   
the Starfleet engineers can't find anything wrong," B'Elanna answers.   
  
Ah, it's that bit of vulnerability showing through. No matter how many times I tell her, B'Elanna never believes in herself enough. She has her moments of self-realization, but never enough for me and certainly never enough for her.   
  
"You've done a great job," I pull her close to me. "Don't worry about a thing, okay?"  
  
If we had endearments, silly names to call each other, this would be the ideal moment to do that. But both of us - and B'Elanna especially - shrink from silly nicknames. No, I take that back. B'Elanna is allowed to call me "pig," but only in when we are rutting in the heat of passion.  
  
I take it as a compliment.   
  
"You just don't get it, Tom," she says in a low voice.   
  
"Get what?"  
  
"If you have to ask." B'Elanna says. She pulls away. "I've got to go. I've got work to do."  
  
I stare after her, wondering what exactly is going on in that head of hers. I could run after her and prod her for more information, but I know better than to do that; since her return from the Borg cube, she has been a little colder, more standoffish. Sometimes, when I touch her, I feel her muscles tense and I pull back.  
  
I don't doubt her love for me; that has never been in question. I do worry about her though because sometimes I think she is walking a plank and any second now, she's going to jump.  
  
What frightens me most is that I won't be there to catch her.  
  
****  
  
He means well and I know that.   
  
There are so many things involved in being with someone, in loving that person so completely. So many things and yet, I feel capable of none of it.   
  
There are books written on relationships. The titles are not mysterious in any way, all of them giving away the plot before I even turn the holo-PADD on. I have already worked my way through "101 Ways to Love Your Lover," "Open Your Heart and Start Living" and "The Power of Honesty."  
  
None of them help. I'm still hollow inside.   
  
It's odd. Give me some schematics, and I can interpret them and make a pile of circuits work. A blueprint on how to love someone correctly is not something I have been able to follow; instead, I find myself muddled constantly, caught off guard by him and constantly wondering how long can   
I keep this pretense up?  
  
I say "pretense" only because that's how I view this relationship.  
  
I want a schematic on Tom Paris; I want someone to write it down for me, to tell me how best to approach this man in my life. I need the guidance because when I look into those baby blues, I'm hopelessly lost. I hate that he has that effect on me and I hate not being able to put him off-balance the way he does me.  
  
I love Tom Paris. I love him like I have never loved before and I doubt that that fact will ever change.  
  
He doesn't tell me that he loves me as often I tell him, but it doesn't bother me. I feel his love in the way he always cups my jaw before leaning in for a kiss. I see the quickness in his step when he sees me and the way his lips curve up when my hand surreptitiously brushes his when I think no one is looking.  
  
I worry that his love for me will vanish if and when I ever tell him what I have yet to tell anyone. I fear that he will look at me with that same disgust that was in his eyes when I was still Borg.  
  
I don't tell him that I saw his initial reaction because I know it disturbs him greatly that he reacted so violently; I don't tell him that he is one of the reasons why I can't confess the crimes that plague my every waking hour.  
  
I know I'm not strong enough to see us through what lies ahead. Tom will protest, say that he is strong enough to hold us together, but he doesn't know everything yet.  
  
I love him in ways that are completely unexpected. If at some point in my younger years, if I had been asked to draw up a list of my ideal man, very few of Tom's traits would have been on that list. About the only thing my list and Tom have in common is the fact that he is not Klingon. Indeed, the list of Tom's faults is longer than my arm.  
  
He's late.  
  
He's forgetful.  
  
He breaks rules more often than he follows them.  
  
He spends more time in the holodeck than with me.  
  
He drinks too much beer while watching television.  
  
He leaves his socks lying around.  
  
Yet Tom has grabbed a hold of my hearts and won't let go. When I see him, everything stops just like that. He only has to smile at me and I forget who I am, where I am, everything.  
And I'm keenly aware that when we are in a room together, no matter how many people are around   
us, I am the only one he sees.  
  
But I'm also a realist and know that at some point I have to stop pretending.  
  
When he knows the truth, Tom is going to leave. He won't stay with me.  
  
No one ever does.  
  
****  
  
Word travels fast on the good ship Voyager. It's amazing sometimes. Gossips evidently know things about B'Elanna and me even before we know it ourselves. Sometimes, I hear stories about our fights, each tale more fantastic than the last. We throw things, apparently, and call each other terrible, unmentionable-in-public-type names.  
  
I find this all a bit humorous, for the very idea of B'Elanna and I constantly at each other's throats is a bit ludicrous.  
  
B'Elanna has only thrown something - a vase - at me once before.   
  
As for calling each other names? Nah, never happened, unless you count "pig" as a name.  
  
But I digress.   
  
Entering the messhall, I find Neelix bubbling with something resembling joy. He has accosted poor Tuvok who did indeed leave what little sense of humor he had on the Borg cube.   
  
"We have not yet confirmed this news," Tuvok says patiently as I swing into the seat directly opposite him. "You must be calm, Mr. Neelix, and not spread false hope through the crew."  
  
"Can't I just tell one person?" Neelix is positively glowing. Makes me wonder who he has back in the Alpha Quadrant keeping his dinner warm.  
  
"No," Tuvok says.  
  
Neelix's face falls but I could have predicted Tuvok's answer; you ask a stupid question, you get a stupid answer - especially when you ask a Vulcan.  
  
"Are you excited, Mr. Paris?" Neelix asks me.  
  
"Excited isn't the word for it," I said. "I'm positively overjoyed."  
  
Tuvok arches an eyebrow at me.   
  
"You are exaggerating your emotion," he says. Always the one for the understatement, always pointing out the obvious. Yes, I'm anxious to get home, yes, I'm exhausted after seven years in the Delta Quadrant.  
  
What I want most is to stay in one place for some time, sit out in the sun and drink lemonade. It sounds simplistic, but after going up against a million different aliens and escaping by the skin of our teeth each time, I want nothing more than to relax, stretch and feel the tension ease from my muscles.  
  
For once, I don't want to wonder who is around the next nebula or who is hiding in the next star system. I don't want to figure out how best to dodge torpedoes that far surpass Voyager's technology and I certainly don't want to run into the Borg again.  
  
I wonder what the others want. I have no doubt that Harry will continue in Starfleet; he is much too eager not to purse his career. Chakotay, who knows? I can never read the man. Sometimes he is almost as enigmatic as Seven, showing little or no emotion.  
  
Tuvok will stay; it would be logical for him to. He would never dream of retiring to Vulcan to peruse ancient texts. I do suspect that first stop on Tuvok's tour of the Alpha Quadrant will be Vulcan to resolve his Pon Farr; there is no way in hell meditation can replace a soft body curled up against you.  
  
Janeway is married to Starfleet; more importantly, Voyager is her ship. She won't give it up without a fight and I honestly would hate to be the admiral who comes between the Captain and her ship.  
  
But then again, that's what B'Elanna would call a worst-case scenario. Retiring Voyager isn't a done deal. Only in my twisted, most demented moments, do I imagine this ship as a heap of scrap metal in the shipyards of Planetia Utopia.   
  
And speaking of B'Elanna, I do not know what she will do once we return home. There are times when she allows herself to indulge in my flights of fancy, seeing and feeling the same as I do; other times, she fixes me with a penetrating gaze as if admonishing me to be real.  
  
I don't know what she wants from me, honestly.  
  
There are times when I wonder what we are still doing together. Her, me, B'Elanna, Tom, Torres, Paris. It's a bizarre thing, no matter how you look at it. We disassociate freely, face off with impunity and never, and I mean never, ask for forgiveness.   
  
She doesn't need me; this much I have figured out.   
  
"Well, I'm excited," Neelix declares.   
  
"You're coming back to the Alpha Quadrant with us?" I ask in surprise.  
  
"There is no reason for me to stay here, is there?" Neelix asks. "I would love to see the Alpha Quadrant. What do you think, Mr. Vulcan?"  
  
Tuvok gives Neelix a look of pained tolerance. Neelix grins, his reptilian skin stretching as his lips curve up.   
  
"Your decision on whether to stay here or accompany us to the Alpha Quadrant is not a concern to me," Tuvok says.   
  
My jaw drops; damn he is cold.   
  
Neelix looks disappointed. He shuffles his feet, bends his head slightly so that he is no longer looking Tuvok in the eye.  
  
"It will not be long before we are there," Neelix says. "I imagine the crew will be just as excited as I am."  
  
"You are not to share this information," Tuvok lectures sternly.  
  
"Everyone already knows," I point out.  
  
Tuvok nails me to the wall with one of his glares.  
  
"That is not an excuse, Lieutenant," he says. I fully expect him to ask him if everyone else on this ship decided to jump out an airlock, would I do so also? Instead Tuvok pushes his chair back and gets up from the table; his back is ramrod straight, a new posture courtesy of the Borg.  
  
I sit there in the middle of the mess hall, surrounded by so many, but feeling so alone.  
Eager to go home? I don't know. Disappointment seems to follow us at every turn so I don't want to get my hopes up.  
  
There's more involved in going home than just arriving in the Alpha Quadrant and saying, "Hi honey, I'm home!"  
  
There will need to be a period of adjustment - I know this - and none of it will be easy.  
  
Those whom we left behind aren't the same people now. Seven years has a curious way of changing people, of getting beneath the skin and tinkering with emotions and opinions. There are the superficial changes like crow's feet or gray hair and then there are the other changes, the deep personality traits hidden deep within. Those are the ones you can't predict, the ones that are harder to get used to.  
  
And then there is something else: I'm not the same man I used to be.  
  
I'm only afraid that they - the ambiguous they we are always talking about - will see and understand the changes in me.  
  
****  
  
Each time I take a step through the corridors of Voyager, I'm very much aware that this might be the last time I put my foot down in this exact location. I notice things more than I have before; everything is in focus, clear and sharp. No longer do I take Voyager for granted; each day that passes is one day closer to the Alpha Quadrant, one day less on Voyager.  
  
I don't know where my sentimentality comes from.   
  
Tom says I'm softer, more gentle, since my sojourn on the Borg cube. I think he is trying to be nice, trying so hard to make up for his initial reaction when he saw me for the first time in full Borg regalia.  
  
He was frightened, understandably frightened.  
  
In my lucid, non-Borg moments, I too felt a tinge of fear running through the parts of me that still belonged wholly to B'Elanna Torres.   
  
But whether Tom is trying to be nice is irrelevant - there, you see? I did it again. I can't help myself; some parts of my brain were so completely absorbed into the Collective, I find myself curiously alone at times, longing for the cacophony of voices. At other times, I want to flee, run from the memory of constant shrieking in my head.  
  
And then I wake and realize that it was all a nightmare, that I no longer sleep standing up.   
  
Realize that I can relax beneath a sonic shower and not wonder when my joints will be oiled again.  
  
These are things I do not share with Tom; instead, these are mine and mine alone.  
  
I do not mean to push him away; it just happens. Sometimes, I find myself staring at Tuvok or Janeway and there's this look in their eyes and I know, just as they know this about me, that they are remembering something too.  
  
The three of us have never sat down to talk about the time we spent on the Borg cube - there just hasn't been the time.   
  
And now, with the Alpha Quadrant in arm's reach, I doubt we will ever talk about it.  
Does it matter?  
  
Maybe it does. I don't know. Maybe in ten, twenty, thirty years I will know the answers, but right now, I'm just counting my steps. Measuring each moment, hoarding them because I don't know what lies ahead and more than any specific instant on the Borg cube, this frightens me.  
  
****  
  
It has been weeks since I have worked on the Camaro. I'd been staying away from the holodeck since B'Elanna's return, working on putting her back together, putting us back together.  
But now, dressed in my grease-stained monkey suit, I lay beneath the car, running a rag over its engine parts.  
  
I love this feeling of making things work. Especially something that I could so easily have the computer fix in a few minutes.  
  
The holodeck doors slide open.  
  
"Tom? You in here?"  
  
Harry.  
  
I slide out from beneath the car, wiping my hands on the rag.   
  
"You are a mess," Harry observes.  
  
Of course Harry is standing there in his neatly pressed Starfleet uniform, nary a stain to be seen. I'm impressed. If he doesn't get his promotion in the Alpha Quadrant, I'm going to nominate him for the "Best Dressed" award.  
  
"Hello to you too," I say. "Coming off the Bridge?"  
  
"Yeah. You know, Tom, before we get back home, you really ought to consider spending some time on the Bridge."  
  
"No thanks. I get enough time as it is on the helm."  
  
"You don't want the command experience? It would help with your career."  
  
My career. I had never thought of Starfleet as a career before; in fact, it was merely something my father did and something for me to try when nothing else worked out.  
  
Until Janeway extended her hand to me, I had always thought of Starfleet as a bunch of foggy old men in starched uniforms drinking Earl Grey, and spouting philosophy in the best tradition of Aristotle and pontificating endlessly, each one hoping to be the next Cicero.  
  
And now?  
  
Well, don't ask me now what I think. I haven't got the faintest clue. I vacillate daily, shifting from foot to foot, thought to thought, wondering what the galaxy holds for me.  
  
"Not interested," I answer airily because I don't have anything better to say.   
Damn if Harry looks disappointed. He's a good friend; he cares more about my future in Starfleet than I do.  
  
"B'Elanna's looking for you," Harry says.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Is she mad?"  
  
"No," Harry shakes his head.  
  
"So she's just looking for me?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Harry walks around the car, very careful not to get any grease on his uniform. He touches the chrome lightly with his fingers.  
  
"Nice," he says. "You ever drive one of these? I mean in real life, not on a holodeck."  
  
"Once. At that antique car museum."  
  
"Fun?"  
  
"Yeah. I kept stalling though. On the other hand, the Mustang, now that's the car to drive."  
  
"Do you like driving better than flying?"  
  
"Nothing is like flying," I tell him. "You see where you are driving and you react accordingly. It's very manual, very visual. Flying, now that's more instinctive, more from the heart than driving is."  
  
"I'd like to try driving again," Harry says.  
  
"We'll go again sometime, just don't hit a burrito stand again."  
  
"Don't put the burrito stand in a place where I'm going to hit it," Harry retorts.  
Harry takes another look at the car, "I'm going to miss this."  
  
"Miss the car?"  
  
"No. This. You, me, the holodeck."  
  
"There are holodecks in the Alpha Quadrant. I hear that's where they were invented."  
  
"Haven't you thought about what going home means? They could split us up, you know."  
  
"The possibility has occurred to me."  
  
"Doesn't that frighten you?"  
  
`Frighten' isn't quite the right word for the emotion I experience whenever I think of the possibility of the 150 people on Voyager dispersing to various parts of the Alpha Quadrant.  
  
A counselor - and we could sorely use one on Voyager - would term my feelings about our return to the Alpha Quadrant as "separation anxiety."   
  
I have this crazy fantasy that we will write to each other daily, share dirty jokes and trade barbs over the comm system. Once a year, we will reunion talk about the good ol' days on Voyager and then we will reminisce about the Malon until they are larger than life and we come out looking like heroes every time.  
  
"It is a possibility," I say. "Depends what people want to do with themselves."  
  
"I'd like to stay," Harry leans against the car; I'm impressed by his daring - he might get a speck of dust on himself.  
  
"On Voyager or Starfleet?"  
  
"Voyager, preferably, but the ship could be decommissioned when we return. Who knows if Intrepid-class vessels even exist anymore?"  
  
"So you'd take your chances again in the great black beyond?"  
  
"Yeah," a slow smile spreads across my friend's face.   
  
"You'd do it again?"  
  
"Yeah," he says. "In a heartbeat. Wouldn't you?"  
  
Now there's the question of the day.   
  
I don't know.  
  
I would think by now I would have acquired the ability to know what I, Tom Paris, would want.   
Maybe I'm waiting for someone else to tell me what he or she wants.  
  
I joined Starfleet because my father wanted it.  
  
I ended up on Voyager because Janeway wanted me.  
  
And now, with all my options in front of me, I still can't figure out what I want.  
  
"For the chance to be a punching bag for the Hirogen again?" I shake my head.  
  
"When you put it that way," Harry grins. "No, but really, Tom, don't you know?"  
  
"Actually, I'm going to wait and see," I answer, picking up the rag again. "Did you say B'Elanna was looking for me?"  
  
"I'm here," B'Elanna says from behind Harry. She is leaning against the doorjamb, her arms folded across her chest; she is smiling though.  
  
"Took you long enough, Maquis," Harry says, turning towards B'Elanna.   
  
"You didn't ask the computer?" I ask.  
  
"And take all the fun out of searching for you?" she shakes her head. "There are only a few   
places you would be, Tom, and I can pretty much eliminate the lower decks."  
  
"She's so smart," I tell Harry. B'Elanna offers me a grin, a crooked mixture of arrogance and pride.  
  
"I've got to go," Harry says. "I'm beat."  
  
He is out of the holodeck so fast that we feel a breeze in his wake. B'Elanna tips her head towards Harry's departing figure.  
  
"Am I interrupting something?" she asks as I slide back underneath the car.  
  
"No," I say. "We were just talking."  
  
B'Elanna pulls out a wobbly stool from beneath the tool bench and perches on it precariously.  
  
"You really need to fix this in the program," she says. "It's not safe."  
  
"It's for authenticity," I argue back as grease lands on my cheek. "Aw, shoot!"  
  
B'Elanna is immediately at my side, "What is it?"  
  
"Nothing," I slide back out. She kneels by my side and dabs at the grease with a rag. Damn, I love this woman.  
  
"You were looking for me," I say.  
  
"Hmmm. just thinking about you."  
  
"Really?"   
  
"Yeah," she offers me a shy smile. I wrinkle my brow.  
  
"What's going on?"  
  
"Just thinking about going home."  
  
"You excited?"  
  
"Don't know. I like it out here."  
  
"You've said that before."  
  
"Wouldn't you like to stay out here?" she leans forward, balancing her weight on her palms.   
"Think about it, Tom. You, me, and wide-open spaces. There is so much to discover, so much to do. We could make a life out here, you and me."  
  
Her cheeks flush as the words fall from her lip. She is animated in a way I haven't seen since her return from the Borg cube. In fact, she is downright giddy - not typically an emotion I get from her.   
  
I sit up and take one of her hands in mine. Her fingers are slender, long - the type that are perfect for piano playing. Her nails are rough, grooved and occasionally blue at the base. She is looking at me, almost pleading with me to agree with her proposal.  
  
"So you want to leave Voyager and stay in the Delta Quadrant," I say. I want to comprehend completely.   
  
"Yeah," she says. "No reason to go home. Hell, it's not even home to me, it's just another place to be. You know, somewhere else for me to be miserable. I might as well stay here."  
  
"You don't mean any of that," I tell her.  
  
"I do," she says defiantly. "Tom, don't you think about what's going to happen when we get home?"  
  
Hmm. now that she has postulated the question, I have to be honest. I'm not very good at lying and B'Elanna has a hunter's instinct; she smells fear and she pounces without a second thought. I've been prey enough to suit my tastes, so I confess everything.  
  
"Depends what you mean," I tell her. "I think about a normal life, a house, a family."  
  
Her face is shadowed, guarded. I have learned, over the past four years, that there are some places I'm not allowed and as such, I don't ask B'Elanna. When she is good and ready, she will let me in.  
  
"I don't," she admits. "I don't want walls. I just want to fly, be free."  
  
"You can do that in the Alpha Quadrant."  
  
"How?" she asks pointedly. "You think Starfleet is going to let me onto another one of their   
precious ships? They probably don't even want me on this one."  
  
"We'll find a way," I caress her hand between mine. She shakes her head.  
  
"Tom, you can't fix everything."  
  
She gets to her feet and is out of the holodeck. I sigh, drop my head, and after a minute, slide back beneath the car.  
  
****  
  
I'm an emotional train wreck; every time I think I'm back on my feet, something else derails me and pushes me hopelessly off track.  
  
I want to help myself, Kahless, I do. I look at people who cringe when they see me come and I hear the fury in my voice and I see the impact; I can't help it. I just steam roll through others, knocking them off their feet only because I'm so out of control myself.  
  
I don't want people to know that inside, I feel like blood pie gone sour, quivering and shaking. I think to reveal my insecurities would take away something that belongs to me and more than anything, I don't want to be found out to be anything less than B'Elanna Torres, chief engineer extraordinaire and Klingon warrior.  
  
Actually, that last thing - B'Elanna the Klingon warrior - is my mother's fantasy; I think she wanted to believe that I would do battle in her honor and bring glory to her name.  
  
Or something like that, I don't even know anymore. Don't know if I want to know.   
  
I wake up at night, sweating, sometimes even on the verge of tears.   
  
I didn't use to be like this.   
  
I worry, as we get closer to the Alpha Quadrant, that I will collapse in a boneless heap on the floor, unable to stand under the weight of my own wayward emotions.  
  
"Feelings aren't wrong or right," Tom says over and over. "They just are. If you feel something, you have to verbalize it. What you feel is what you feel and no one should condemn you for that."  
  
He's right, I know that, but like so much else, actually putting what I feel into words is hard and instead, I hold it all in - a sure recipe for a chronic case of ulcers.  
  
The truth is, I'm better with actions than with words. I'm not a poet, never have been, but give me a pile of circuits and I will make something out of nothing.   
  
When I'm down in Engineering, I think that if I switch this circuit with that one, the warp core will sputter and we'll be stranded here in the Delta Quadrant. Other times, I think that I can send wrong sensor readings to the helm and put us off-track so that we continue to stay out here, searching fruitlessly for a way home.  
  
I see Tom as a victim of my insecurity. I hold onto him as if he is the only one who can save me from drowning. The irrational fear persists though: nothing lasts forever and no one, and I mean no one, ever sticks around B'Elanna Torres for very long.  
  
Tom looks at me sometimes, a bit confused, wondering what is going on in my head; I wish I could tell him but I don't know myself.  
  
We cling to each other out of habit. We turn to each other because that's what we're used to.   
  
Habits, however, cannot withstand the scrutiny that will come once we return home. There will be investigations, I know, and none of us will emerge unscathed.  
Somehow, I have to hold on to Tom, make sure he doesn't leave me, make sure that I won't be alone.  
  
I can't help it; the tears swell just behind my eyes, bubbling up in my throat. I can only swallow hard and blink my eyes back into focus. I think about losing Tom because I'm in sickbay and I can still see evidence of the frantic hours he and the Doctor spent de-assimilating the others and me.   
  
"Are you going to take long?" the Doctor's voice is in my ear.  
  
"Give me a second," I say. "The diagnostic picked up some corrupt recursive algorithms."   
  
My tone was sharper than I wanted it to be, but he has interrupted my pity party; after all this time, everyone should know that when I'm feeling sorry for myself, they are not invited to ride along on the B'Elanna Torres emotional roller-coaster.  
  
Not for the first time, the Doctor suggests counseling. He stands there, smug little hologram, arms crossed against his chest, saying in his self-righteous baritone tinged with melodrama, "I know a great holodeck program that is guaranteed to work wonders. I've used it many times to help others who are in the pit of despair."  
  
"I'm not in the pit of despair," I tell him. "Far from it."   
  
"I know the signs," he says. "You're suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome."   
  
"And how would you know?"   
  
"The classic signs are all there," the Doctor says. "Avoidance, that's one of the symptoms."   
  
"Avoidance?"   
  
"You refuse, for instance, to talk about the things which trouble you. You will not talk about how you feel about the decimation of the Maquis, your relationship with your fa-"  
  
"That is no one's business!" I flare back. At this moment, I want to jab his holographic self with something metallic, anything to disrupt that photonic matrix of his. Then we'll talk trauma.  
  
"You haven't talked about your Borg experience."   
  
My fingers curl into fists involuntarily.   
  
"Have you talked to Mr. Paris about what happened?" he asks. "About your time on the Cube?"   
  
"What I talk about with Tom is none of your business," I answer hotly. My fingers curl and uncurl uncontrollably. There is nothing nearby to smash, nothing to disrupt except for the EMH Mark I holographic doctor in front of me and Kahless help me, but we do need him.  
  
"Do you have trouble sleeping at night?" the Doctor persists.   
  
I refuse to tell him about my nightmares; those belong to me alone. I cannot tell him of dreams tinged in eerie green glow or how sometimes I can hear the heavy metallic thud of footsteps behind me. I don't tell him how I wake up in the middle of the night, my heart pounding and light sweat coating my brow. Most of all, I cannot tell him how it feels to know you have assimilated someone.  
  
Yes, that's right. For three months of my life, I was Borg, lived as Borg, thought as Borg, and yes, as Borg, I assimilated others.  
  
I don't know the number of assimilations I participated in; I was unconsciously following the Borg directive: just do it. In the echoes of my mind, I think there must have been thousands of assimilations; I look at Janeway and Tuvok and I know they are wondering the same. How many how many how many... it is a vicious taunt that plays in continuous rhythm through my mind.  
  
"Lieutenant? Do you have trouble sleeping at night?" the Doctor is now grasping my forearm, making it difficult for me to continue working.  
  
"No," I answer flatly.   
  
His brow crinkles in a display of serious thought.   
  
"I don't want to talk about this," I say.   
  
"You see? Classic avoidance. You refuse to talk about what you feel."   
  
I shut my tool kit with a resounding snap, "I choose not to discuss certain things with certain people. Is that all right with you?"  
  
"We just want to help you, B'Elanna."   
  
"Then stay out of my way," I answer.   
  
The Doctor looks perplexed and for a moment, I let myself feel sorry for him and then, I get my furious B'Elanna face back on and stomp out of sickbay.  
  
He doesn't know, he can't possibly know, that around every corner there is a Borg drone and that   
in the shadows, when I'm alone, I hear the screams.  
  
I hear the screams and I cannot make them stop.   
  
****  
  
She avoids me. Janeway, that is. She averts her eyes and says very little to me. In fact, I notice she talks mostly to Chakotay and occasionally to her protégé, Seven of Nine.  
Even Harry notes it and says he thinks the Captain's behavior is odd.  
  
"She's been like this since they got back," he says as we sit in the black and white world of Captain Proton.   
  
"Who? The Captain?" I ask carefully, tightening the laces on my boots.  
  
"Yeah," Harry leans forward, flicks imaginary dust off of his khaki pants.  
  
"It was a ...difficult mission," I answer.  
  
"It's more than that," Harry says. "Tom, did something happen between you and the Captain?"  
  
I freeze. Harry, good-natured Harry, but still perceptive in ways that I never suspect.   
  
I have not even told B'Elanna about my feelings about Janeway, how I feel that our Captain deliberately endangered the crew of Voyager when she chose to be assimilated by the Borg. I know that Harry has some idea of the anger that boiled within me during the time Janeway, B'Elanna and Tuvok were gone - the period of anxiety and turmoil - but I have never verbalized my feelings. Only once did I say something and that was to the Captain directly; she accepted my condemnation of her activities with something close to neutrality and then, in her gravely voice, dismissed me with the admonishment that she was the captain.  
  
In the two months since they have been back, talk of the Borg is strictly taboo; Janeway walks around with a pained, tightlipped smile, Tuvok says less than ever and B'Elanna. well, who even knows what's going on with B'Elanna?  
  
At night, she sits curled in an armchair, a blanket around her shoulders, staring blankly into space. Sometimes, she lies next to me, submitting to my caresses until finally, even I give up.  
  
And then other times, I never see her; she vanishes somewhere into the bowels of Voyager, working tirelessly at problems that exist only in her mind.   
  
"I get the feeling the Captain doesn't like you," Harry continues.  
  
I offer Harry a semblance of a smile, "I think you're right."  
  
****  
  
Voyager is in frenzy; there are countdowns and plans for a "Welcome Home" type party. Sue Nicoletti made this last suggestion and I could only respond, scorn dripping from every word,   
  
"You can't welcome yourself home. That doesn't make sense."  
  
I could tell from Sue's expression that if such a party were held, I would not be invited. "That B'Elanna Torres," she would say in a kindly and sympathetic tone, "she's not really, you know, a party type of girl."  
  
It doesn't matter; I wouldn't want to go anyway.  
  
I listen to the conversations around me, hear the expectations in voices that rise and fall in excitement. Most talk about seeing their family and friends again. Even Harry, who has not mentioned Libby in years, is looking forward to seeing her again - even if the relationship isn't quite as he left it.  
  
I envy them their anticipation, envy their nonchalance. I want that secure feeling of knowing that someone in the Alpha Quadrant loves me and is waiting eagerly to see me.  
  
I have these fantasies of getting off of Voyager and running straight, like a little girl, into my father's arms. I dream that he will lift me and swing me around, my legs flying out behind me. His head will tip up towards mine and we will both laugh laughs that come both from the belly and the heart.  
  
Tom sometimes asks what I'm thinking but this is one thing I cannot share with him. I'm afraid that if I say my dreams out loud, I am automatically setting myself up for disappointment. If I keep it to myself, it's mine, this crazy little dream.   
  
It's amazing how fast time flies when you are dreading a certain event; it's almost like knowing the day you're going to die.  
  
Heart pounding, hands shaking, blood racing - and the only place I can spend this extra energy is in the holodeck, fighting famous Klingon battle after battle.   
  
I return to my quarters, bruised and utterly exhausted; there is no time to think of the Alpha Quadrant because sleep takes me to a place where, thankfully, there are no dreams.  
  
****  
  
We are close, so damned close, I can almost taste fresh pizza on my tongue. It's silly the things you long for and I'm sure, as soon as we cross into the Alpha Quadrant, my wish list will grow exponentially.  
But right now, I'd settle for a slice of cheese pizza, a beer and a hot shower. I guess when you've been away for so long, you get used to doing without the things you would ordinarily consider as essential to your well-being as oxygen.  
What we wanted most during our sojourn was contact with anyone who was not intent on killing us or stealing our technology or kidnapping our people; this wish has been fulfilled.  
According to Seven's countdown, we are only five days away and the messages from the Alpha Quadrant are coming fast and furious, almost more than we can possibly read or respond to.  
My father has written several times, each time reiterating his pride in me and how eager he is to see me again.   
B'Elanna, however, has received nothing.  
If it bothers her, she does not say and I do not ask.   
We lie in bed, her body turned away from mine, her head resting on her clasped hands. Her body is absolutely tense but I make no attempt to touch her.  
There are, in my mind, two periods in our relationship. There is "BC" - or "Before Cube" and then there is, "AD" - "After Deassimilation."  
To the casual observer, there is little or no difference between the two B'Elannas, but I know better. Her temper is more controlled these days and she often is deep in thought, thinking thoughts I'm not allowed to know. There are times when I want to ask her what happened on that cube. I want to know why she feels the need to withdraw into herself at the times when we should be most intimate.  
The B'Elanna lying next to me tonight is "AD" - utterly cold, stiff and scarily unemotional. Her arms are at her side, her hands balled up into tight fists and her teeth grind against each other as she lies there, silent except for the rasp of her breath.  
Because I want to stay alive, I say nothing. I do not ask her what is wrong because she doesn't know the answer herself.  
But I know. At least, I think I know. I think it has everything to do with the Borg, with what happened there and I know she hasn't told me everything.  
I put my hands beneath my head and stare up at the ceiling panels. I have counted them in the past and know that there are exactly seventy tiles making up B'Elanna's ceiling. There are little dots on the tiles too, but my eyes aren't strong enough to count those. One day though, I'm going to find out exactly how many little dots there are per tile; it's amazing how little it takes to amuse me.  
"Tell me about the house," her voice is muffled. I glance at her. It has been days, weeks even, since I had last discussed my plans for a house with her. At that time, she had seemed less than interested and suggested that maybe I should focus on reconstructing the Delta Flyer than dreaming up house blueprints.  
"Where did that come from?" I ask.  
"I want to know."  
"Well, it's on the cliffs in San Francisco," I tell her.  
"I thought the house was going to be outside of the city."  
"Okay, outside of the city then. Maybe four or five kilometers out."  
"That's better," B'Elanna rolls over so that she is now facing me.  
"It will be perfectly square," I say. "And it will be built up around a swimming pool."  
"A swimming pool? You never said anything about a pool before."  
"Harry's idea. He and Megan were talking about pool parties they went to back at the Academy. I thought it sounded good."  
The look B'Elanna gives me is positively crippling; I don't believe that she believes a single good idea can spring from Megan Delaney's head. But then again, that's the little jealous streak that pops up every now and then in my selfish darling. She'd never admit it, but she does get fiercely protective, clutching at my arm whenever either Delaney sister is around. Her grip, during those chance encounters, is so tight, circulation ceases, but I get the point and so does everyone else; I might as well have "property of B'Elanna" stamped on my forehead.  
"Go on," B'Elanna says, an edge creeping into her voice.  
"Uh, all of the rooms will open onto the pool patio," I tell her. "There will be an office for you, an office for me, kitchen, living room, maybe three or four bedrooms."  
"That's a lot of bedrooms," she says.   
"I figure we might need them. Don't you?"  
She raises both eyebrows at me; now I'm in trouble.  
"I'm just anticipating possibilities," I tell her. "And there will be flowers, lots of them, and maybe even a fountain."  
"It sounds beautiful, Tom," B'Elanna rolls over on top of me, the tips of her hair brushing my cheeks. She leans down and brushes her lips against mine. I tighten my hold on her, sliding my hands down her back, reveling in the feel of the silky material against my palms.   
"Is there a reason you're asking?" my hands are pushing her nightgown up past her thighs.  
B'Elanna lifts her head and meets my eyes. For the first time in days, I see that she is ready to be honest with me.  
"I don't see myself living there, Tom," she says. "It's not that I don't want to be there, but I just don't believe it will happen."  
"It's going to happen, B'Elanna," I tell her. "I'll make it happen."  
"I don't doubt that for a second."  
She rolls off of me and sits up in bed. She removes the magenta nightgown in one fluid motion. I prop myself up on my elbow, admiring the curve of her back, the delicate arch of her neck and the slope of her shoulders. B'Elanna glances back at me, her chin nearly resting on her shoulders.  
"Everything is going to change, Tom," her voice is soft but confident.  
"I know."  
"Are you afraid of what will happen?"  
"It's nothing we can't handle."  
"They'll separate us."  
"You don't know that."  
"Chakotay is positive it will happen," B'Elanna shivers.   
"Why does he say that?"  
"Because of some of the communiqués the Captain has shown him."  
"The Captain will take care of you, of us."  
"And if she can't?"  
"That won't happen."  
"I'm already pretending in my head, Tom. Already trying to imagine what it would be like without you. Does that make me a bad person?"  
"I think you're overreacting," I respond carefully. "But no, you're not a bad person. You shouldn't say that."  
She seems satisfied and falls back onto the bed, landing on my outstretched arm. I roll on top of her, my fingers brushing her hair away from her face with my thumbs.  
B'Elanna presses her hands onto my shoulders, keeping me from kissing her.  
"Marry me, Tom," she whispers.   
"I thought you'd never ask," I reply in an equally low voice. "When we get back, we can have a big wedding in San Francisco."  
"No, now," she says. "Before we get back."  
She is serious, I realize. This isn't a casual proposal, but apparently something she has been thinking about for quite a while. I don't want to flatter myself and say that her urgency is driven by her unconditional and overwhelming love for yours truly; rather, I sense something more, a fear of what awaits us in the Alpha Quadrant.   
And there is also a difference between me saying that I will be there for her and being legally obliged to stand by her. I have run out on some many people and commitments in the past, I understand her doubts and a small part of me even wants us to get married so that I don't have an escape route this time.  
"Tom," her eyes look back at me, panic-stricken. I haven't seen her look this distressed since the first few days after her de-assimilation process. "Please."  
"We'll do it," I promise her.   
"Before we get back."  
She is genuinely serious and I wrap a strand of her hair around my finger. What the hell, I plan to marry her anyway. Now is as good as a time as any.  
"Tomorrow?" I suggest.   
"Yes," her arms snake around my neck. I lean down to kiss her, my lips moving down from her cheek to her jawbone and down into the curve of her neck. Her hands ruffle my hair as her right leg bends up against my hip. I lift my head to look at her.  
"Thank you," she whispers.  
"You're welcome," I answer, wondering why I feel so cheap and used.  
  
****  
  
When I was a little girl, I used to dream of the day I would walk down the aisle. I would wear white, not Klingon red and gold, and my father would be there to give me away, his eyes misting with emotion. Everyone would stand as I made my way to the altar, some of the women would dab at their eyes with their dainty handkerchiefs. They would even mutter, "Isn't she beautiful?"  
I never really put a face on the man who would be waiting for me; I only knew he would not be a Klingon.   
I wanted someone smooth-faced like my father, with silky hair instead of rough Klingon tresses.  
As Tom would say, one out of five ain't bad. My father isn't here and I'm not wearing white, just my usual dress uniform. There are no crowds of sobbing women here, just the senior staff. And there is no walk down the aisle; Tom and I merely join hands and look up at Janeway.  
She looks slightly flustered, mostly because she did not expect our request and she certainly did not think she would have to perform a wedding ceremony during her last four days in the Delta Quadrant.  
We went this morning to ask Janeway if she would marry us. We sat in front of her like two little kids in detention, hands folded neatly in laps, legs crossed at the ankles.  
"You are sure?" Janeway asked about thirty times. "You sure you want to get married? This is sudden, isn't it?"  
Irritation bubbled up in the back of my throat; I always felt that Janeway had feelings that were less than maternal for Tom. Sometimes, I would see her looking at Tom with a strange look on her face and it was more than pride in her protégé; her expression tended to be a little more lascivious than appropriate for a commanding officer.  
"We have known each other for seven years," I told Janeway flatly. "This isn't like we just met yesterday."  
"We planned to get married anyway once we got home," Tom said. I looked over at my husband-to-be; such a smooth liar he is. We had never once discussed getting married. We had talked about a house, but never about the two of us actually living there together. I guess we figured it was either implied or it would just happen with little resistance from either of us.  
"We just want to do it now," I said.  
"Today?" Janeway looked at both of us. "You don't have time to plan a proper ceremony."  
"We want to get married today," I laid stress on the last word. "There will be time to do a so-called `proper' wedding at another time."  
"I don't know about you, but I plan on getting married only once," Tom joked. Both Janeway and I glared at him and he immediately wilted, his lips pursing shut.  
"I just find your haste surprising," Janeway said. "Is there. something I should know about?" I winced at the tone in her voice; did she suspect pregnancy?   
"No," Tom said. "We want to get married today."  
There was something in his tone that made Janeway sit up straighter.   
"You owe me this," Tom said in a very low voice. I turned to him in surprise; Janeway's cheeks flushed red.  
"Very well," she said. "This evening then. At 2100 hours, I will perform the ceremony."  
We skulked out of the ready room and I took a moment to stop Tom, placing my hand on his shoulder.   
"What did you mean by that last comment?" I asked.  
"B'Elanna, don't get involved," he said. "This is between the Captain and me."  
"Fine," I snapped. "Be that way."  
"Hey!" he grabbed my arm. "This is our wedding day. Let's not fight, okay? Just one day, promise me that much."  
And so I promised that much to Tom and as I stand here before him, my hearts are beating madly and nervously at the thought of having to pledge my entire life to this man.  
My eyes shift back and forth, focusing on anything but Tom. I see Seven standing next to the Doctor. Tuvok, Chakotay and Harry are opposite them. Neelix stands just behind the Captain.  
Amazingly, we managed to keep the wedding a secret from the entire ship, no small feat when you consider how fast the Voyager grapevine is. Part of it had to do with the fact that we did not inform our guests until about one hour prior to the ceremony. And when we did tell them, Neelix nearly choked as he begged for more time to bake a cake and Harry was upset because he had not practiced an appropriate tune for a wedding ceremony.  
"Do you have something to say?" Janeway asks. I look at Tom, hoping he has not prepared vows, because I certainly have not; I was busy down in Engineering until two hours prior to the ceremony.  
Tom swallows hard; his lips part slightly and then close again.   
He has, I realize with a mixture of fury and dismay. He has something to say and I. I have nothing.  
"What's there to say?" Tom asks shakily. "Except that I will stand by you, B'Elanna, through thick and thin, through Hirogen and Borg, and. you don't have to worry about me. I will be there as long as you will have me."  
Damn him. Even unrehearsed, he still finds the words that stop my hearts and leave my breath in my throat.   
He reaches for my hands, caressing them between his.  
"B'Elanna, do you have something to share with Tom?" Janeway looks at me. At this moment, if looks could kill, I would be dead on the floor.   
"Um," I hesitate. Words and people are not my specialty; I prefer engines and other things mechanical for the pure reasoning that something inanimate, such as a machine, cannot hurt me.  
I can choose the trite and obvious path: my undying confession of eternal love and endless devotion. I can pledge to respect him, to stand by him and to adore him, no matter how often he gets that engine grease in his hair. I can offer to cook dinner every night, to leave my bat'leth in a place he won't trip over it and to put away my clothes instead of leaving them on the floor.   
"B'Elanna?" Janeway says as Tom starts to look a bit panicked. I squeeze his hands.  
"Thank you," I tell him. "Thank you for taking a chance on me. I. I can't even express how much that, um, means to me. Knowing that you, um, will stand by me forever. that's a big promise, Paris, and I, I mean to hold you to it."  
Over Janeway's shoulder, I see Neelix brush away a tear. At least someone is touched.  
As for the Captain herself, she looks unimpressed, even bored.   
"Do you, Tom Paris, take B'Elanna Torres to love, honor and cherish as long as you both shall live?"  
Tom's jaw works nervously and for a moment, I fear he might back out.   
"I do," he says as he places a slender gold band around my finger.  
"And do you, B'Elanna Torres, take Tom Paris to love, honor and cherish as long as you both shall live?"  
There is no hesitation on my part, "I do."  
Janeway swallows and then she offers up a broad, generous smile. I figure, maybe I've been wrong about her feelings about Tom; after all, I've seen her making eyes at Chakotay also.  
"I now pronounce you man and wife," she says. "Tom, you may kiss the bride."  
Tom's lips barely brush against mine; he has never been this tentative before and I wonder if we are making a big mistake.  
There is applause as we turn to face our friends.  
"Congratulations," Chakotay says, shaking Tom's hand.  
"May you have live happy and fruitful lives," the Doctor says enthusiastically. Seven merely glances at us with an expression slightly less than disgust. Harry is beaming and Neelix is positively bursting.  
"Congratulations to both of you," Tuvok says in his usual stilted manner.   
"This is indeed a surprise," Seven finally comments. "Though not an unpleasant one."  
"Thank you," I tell her. I can afford to be generous; today is my wedding day.  
Tom is all the way across the room, talking to Harry.   
My stomach twists, somersaults, and then after a few minutes, Tom is back at my side, a wide smile spreading across his face.  
"Want to get out of here?" he whispers. "Harry just gave me his holodeck time."  
I grin, more from relief than pleasure, "I thought you'd never ask."  
  
****  
There was no time to create a special honeymoon program so it's the old fallback, the Virgin Islands beach program B'Elanna created for me over a year ago.  
We enter the holodeck, hand in hand. The scene is already set; a melting sunset bleeds lavender and gold over a faded blue sky, a gentle breeze moves the heavy branches of palm trees surrounding the crescent-shaped beach.   
"Does it feel different to you?" she asks. "Being married, that is?"  
"No, but it's certainly not the way I expected," I say. I lead her over to one of the lounge chairs and push her down on it. We're definitely not the giddy lovers of four years ago; we're too domesticated, too settled for that kind of passion these days.  
"I know it came out of nowhere," she says, lifting her foot so I can remove her shoe.  
"We never even talked about getting married," I tell her. I sit at the edge of the chair and remove my own shoes. B'Elanna is already removing her jacket.  
"I hate these things," she says. "Itchy and hot."  
She leans back against the chair, moving over to make room for me.  
"I don't think the person who designed these uniforms actually has to wear them," I answer, removing my own jacket. B'Elanna rests her head against my shoulder. It feels so good to sit here, just the two of us, talking for the first time in what seems like weeks. "So why did you want to get married so quickly?"  
"I was afraid with all the excitement in the Alpha Quadrant, we'd just forget about it."  
"Forget about it? B'Elanna, are you crazy?"  
"Maybe," she says. "I wanted to be sure that you wouldn't go anywhere."  
"Where do you think I'm going to go?"  
"I don't know," her brown eyes are wide and curious. She runs a finger up and down my pant leg.   
"Don't say you have doubts about me."  
"I don't. I doubt me," she says. "The other day, I was in the turbolift, and all of sudden, I couldn't breathe. My chest tightened and I really thought I was going to die. And that's when I realized that there was something left undone and that was you and me. After all we've been through, I wanted to make sure we had something to show for it."  
She holds out her right hand and I take her fingers, carefully inspecting the gold ring.   
"It does look nice there," I tell her softly, lifting her hand to my lips. "Mrs. Paris."  
She smiles, "I think it should be Torres for now, don't you?"  
"If you insist," I tell her. "And I suppose this means you can't go off and get yourself assimilated without asking me first?"  
"I did not say I would obey you," she says, smiling. "But yes, I guess I can't. You're stuck with me, Tom."  
I wrap my arms around her, "I can think of worse fates."  
She leans her head back against my shoulder and I feel her muscles relax. We have not been this close in months. Emotionally, that is. There are times, in bed, when I feel like I'm clawing at her, trying to get underneath her skin just to get close to her. There are other times when we are the only two people in a room, meters away, yet sharing a connection we both feel but need no words or physical contact to experience.  
I do not know how this paradox exists; it's unfathomable to me and merely taunts me into lust or utter disinterest - there is nothing in between.  
B'Elanna gets up from the chair; I make no motion to stop her. She walks towards the edge of the water, a darkening silhouette against the early echoes of evening. She steps into the surf, wading ankle deep into the water. She turns only once and I wave at her.   
After a few minutes, B'Elanna comes out, the hem of her pants soggy and clinging to her legs. She beckons to me, and fool I am, I get to my feet.  
B'Elanna is dragging her toe in the sand.  
"Stand there," she commands.  
"What's going on?" I ask. A meter separates us, but once again I feel the distance between us lengthening, the earlier intimacy of the evening gone.  
"This is the way it's going to be," she says. She points down at the sand. "When we get back, it's going to be Starfleet versus Maquis. Everyone's going to have to choose."  
"That's not going to happen," I say, staring down at the line.   
"It's already happening. Don't you feel it?"  
"You're the only one who talks about it."  
"You're not listening, Tom," she hisses. "Don't you ever listen?"  
I turn away and head towards the holodeck doors.  
"Where are you going?" she calls after me.  
"I don't need this," I tell her. "For once, can't you let well enough alone?"  
"I don't want there to be surprises."  
"Surprises? Ha! You're paranoid, B'Elanna."  
"No, I'm not," she catches up to me, her hand on my shoulder. "Tom, please, promise me, when it's time to take sides, you'll forgive me."  
I shake off her hand, "That's not going to happen."  
"Don't be so stubborn. It's only a matter of time."  
I gaze into those brown eyes, wondering what she's hiding.  
"Are you planning something, B'Elanna?"  
"Promise me," she says. "Whatever happens, you'll forgive me."  
I twist the gold wedding band on my finger nervously. She is serious and that scares me.   
"Sure, yeah," I say, not really believing the words dripping from my lips. At this point, I'll say anything to get her to stop this crazy delusional talk.   
And I look at her and realize that she knows I'm lying to her. B'Elanna bites her lip.  
"It's all right, Tom," she brushes my cheek lightly with her fingers. "And I hope you're right and I'm wrong and that this is all in my head."  
She exits the holodeck, leaving me alone.  
  
****  
  
He would hate me for this but I went to Chakotay. My feet somehow know what I want even before my brain does and I suppose this is why, on my wedding night, I am standing in front of Chakotay, trying to compose myself. He hands me a raktajino and indicates the chair opposite his.  
"You fought already?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice. "B'Elanna, really."  
"I told him what is going to happen," I say dully. "He doesn't believe me."  
"Do you really need him to believe you?"  
"I'd like to think he would," I put the mug down. My hands are cold, so very cold, and I shiver. Chakotay gets up and hands me a thin, black blanket. I wrap it around my shoulders, trying to get warm.  
"It's a small thing, B'Elanna."  
"Not to me, it's not," I answer. "He doesn't see me the way I want him to."  
"As a Maquis?" his voice is sharp.  
"In a few days everyone is going to see me as Maquis. He might as well too."  
"You can't dictate terms like that, B'Elanna. It's not fair."  
Chakotay straddles his chair, resting his arms on the back. The lights are dim, his hair is slightly tousled and he is wearing pajamas; I am only just now conscious of the fact that my late night arrival must have woken him.   
"I'm sorry for bothering you," I tell him. I push the mug back and get to my feet. "You're not," he says. "But I don't think it's fair for you to impose on Tom a vision you have of yourself."  
"Do you see yourself as Maquis?" I challenge.  
Chakotay's face tightens; I can almost see the thoughts running through his brain; I imagine electrical impulses dashing along neural pathways, igniting another messenger neuron in turn.   
"I haven't thought about it in a long time," he answers finally. "I guess the Alpha Quadrant seemed so far away, I never thought we would get home."  
"What's going to happen to us, Chakotay?" my voice is very low.  
"I'm not sure. I've told you everything I know already," he says. "But we're still Maquis to Starfleet. That much is clear."  
"Has Janeway said anything?"  
"No, only that she will do her best for us."  
"I don't believe that."  
"She's the only friend we've got, B'Elanna," Chakotay's voice is harsh and I wonder if there is something more, an unspoken sentiment, behind this last statement. Of course there has been gossip about the Captain and her first officer. There has been plenty of talk about the way they look at each other, how their fingers occasionally drift a little too close, and how much time they spend together. alone. in her quarters. Kahless only knows what they do together - I can't fathom what Chakotay could possibly see in Janeway.   
I know what I see.  
I see a cold woman, utterly hardened and single-mindedly determined. If she has regrets, she does not dwell on it; there is always the next best thing to move on to.   
Chakotay, on the other hand, and here, I get into dangerous territory - a place no married woman should go on her wedding night. But it's true. Chakotay possesses a quality of serenity, utter calmness, and trustworthiness; his word is good.  
Janeway, I don't trust. I never have and there have been times when I felt her actions mirrored those of my mother and so I disliked her even more.  
"That's a sorry state of affairs then," I answer. Chakotay scratches his nose and then looks at me.  
"She'll do her best for us," he says.  
"It won't be enough," I say. "The whole Alpha Quadrant could speak for us and it wouldn't make a difference."  
"You don't need the whole Alpha Quadrant, B'Elanna," Chakotay says softly. "You only think you do."  
"What is that supposed to mean?" I demand.  
"I guess I'm just telling you not to worry," he smiles. "And also, good night."  
It is probably the coldest dismissal I've gotten from Chakotay, but I take it in stride.  
Chakotay's just afraid to admit what the rest of Voyager's crew already knows.  
He's Janeway's boy - always has been and always will be.  
And I, well, I no longer know who I am.  
  
*****  
  
The day after my wedding, I meet Harry for breakfast. He is sitting by the windows, stirring oatmeal listlessly.  
"What's going on?" I ask him.  
"Didn't think you were coming," he says. "It being your wedding night."  
"I wouldn't stand you up," I answer. "Give me a second."  
What I don't tell Harry is that B'Elanna and I spent the night apart. At least that's one perk of keeping separate quarters; when the going gets tough, we can retreat to our separate corners to link our wounds and wallow in misery in private.  
I replicate a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast and orange juice, and bring the tray back to the table.  
"Have a good night?" Harry asks without a trace of irony.  
"It was all right," I answer.  
"That good, huh?"  
Harry puts his spoon down.   
"Have you noticed it?" he asks.  
"What?"  
"The divisions."  
"What divisions?"  
"Are you blind? Look around," Harry's voice is low. "Starfleet and Maquis."  
I twist around to look. Harry is right. There are not many people in the messhall at this hour, but those who are, have chosen their tables strictly along party lines.   
"Well," I struggle to find an explanation. "That's normal. They've been through so much together."  
"I don't think that's. It's more calculated," Harry says earnestly.  
"You sound just like B'Elanna. She said the same thing last night."  
"She's right, you know," Harry says. "Look around you. Friendships that have lasted seven years mean nothing now. Once again, we'll be two separate crews, hating and distrusting each other. It will be like we were never in the Delta Quadrant together, fighting for one common goal."  
"Getting home, you mean?"  
"Exactly."  
I take another look around; a group of three, Starfleet, rise from their table and leave with nary a glance at the table of four former Maquis members. The coldness of their departure leaves a bad taste in my mouth and I push my plate away.  
"Just watch," Harry says in that low voice. "In a couple days, we'll be in the Alpha Quadrant and I bet you and B'Elanna won't even talk."  
"Isn't that looking on the dark side of things? That's not like you, Harry."  
He picks up his bowl without looking at the oatmeal now congealing on the sides, "I hope I'm wrong, Tom."  
I hope he's wrong too, but a funny feeling in my gut makes me think that he might actually be right.  
It's weird how you don't notice things until they are specifically pointed out and then this new awareness nags at you, driving you utterly out of your mind.  
During my Academy days, there was this girl - I think her name was Fiona - and she irked me in ways I never thought possible. She was the type who always had the great ideas but always came across as a sledgehammer, bludgeoning you until you cried uncle. With Fiona, you never wanted her to be right even though instinctively you knew everything she said made sense.   
She had this high-pitched laugh and one day, someone confessed, "I hate Fiona's laugh. I hear it and my blood curdles." After that, whenever I heard Fiona laugh, I cringed.  
It's the same thing now that Harry pointed out the division between Starfleet and Maquis. I notice it as I walk through the corridors of Voyager. Maquis and  
Starfleet barely glance at each other as they pass. With each cold encounter between former friends, I cringe.  
In Engineering, I notice the division even more. The Maquis are on the second level while the Starfleet blue bloods occupy the lower levels. I find Seven intent on a data PADD as she inputs information into her console.  
"Seen B'Elanna?" I ask casually.   
"She is in conduit thirteen."   
Ah, my favorite conduit, a prime breeding ground for claustrophobia. I know it well, having spent time there before repairing down power relays, hating every second of it. It would figure that B'Elanna would hide out in the one place where it is ninety percent sure I would not follow.  
Well, her luck just ran out.   
"Thanks," I tell Seven. I cross Engineering to conduit thirteen; the wall panel has already been removed and I enter, crawling through the narrow space.  
B'Elanna is lying on her back, about halfway down, fiddling with something directly above her.   
"Damn!" she exclaims as something sparks.   
"Something I can help you with?"   
"Tom?" she sits up, banging her head on the ceiling. "Damn! Oh, that hurt! See what you made me do?"   
"Want me to kiss and make it better?"   
"No," she says, lying back down. "What are you doing here?"   
I settle myself into a semi-awkward position of my back against the curved conduit walls and my feet propped up against the opposite wall.   
"Looking for you," I tell her. "I miss you."   
"We saw each other last night."   
"You walked out on me last night, remember?"   
B'Elanna sighs, "You really want to talk, Tom?"   
"Yeah," I say. "Look, we need to. We got married and I'm not sure that it was the right thing to do."   
"If you have doubts, tell Janeway; she can divorce us as quickly as she married us."   
"That's not what I mean. I merely meant that maybe we rushed and maybe the Captain was right. We didn't exactly think things through."  
"I've been thinking," she says.   
"You want to share some of those thoughts with me? Don't you owe me at least that much?"   
B'Elanna sits upright, this time a bit more carefully. She pulls her legs to her chest. She leans forward slightly, a pensive expression on her face, as she rests her chin on her knees.   
"Does there need to be a reason?" she asks. "Can't you just do things because you want to?"  
"Depends if there is someone else involved or not. And if there is, you damn well better have a reason."  
"I love you," she says simply. I tilt my head towards her. Once again she takes the easy way out. In the past, all she has had to do it whisper those three words to me and I would melt into a puddle of goo at her feet. This time, I don't.  
"That's it?" I ask.   
"What more do you want?"   
"An explanation, maybe," I say. "You never mentioned getting married before and then all of a sudden, you want to do this. Forgive me if I find it a bit confusing."  
"Sometimes things feel right. This felt right."   
I laugh sardonically; "right" is certainly not the word I would use. I'm more inclined to describe our shotgun nuptials as "uncomfortable."  
"We didn't spend our wedding night together," I remind her. "Where were you last night?"   
"Here," she says in a low voice.   
"You married me, not Voyager's engines, B'Elanna," there is more bite in my voice than I intended. "Are you planning something I'm not aware of?"  
"I don't have an ulterior motive," she shakes her head but her voice wavers making me suspect otherwise.   
"Have you and Chakotay..." I let my voice drift off. "What has he said to you?"   
"Nothing," she says defensively. "I told you everything."   
"I don't think so. B'Elanna, are you even planning to come back to the Alpha Quadrant?"   
B'Elanna blinks, her eyes shifting back and forth.   
"You're not coming back with us," I whisper. "When were you going to say something?"   
"I was going to... eventually."   
"When? When you were on your way out of the airlock? Don't be crazy, B'Elanna. You can't survive in the Delta Quadrant by yourself."  
"I won't be by myself," she says.   
Our eyes lock and she is the first to break off the eye contact.   
"I wouldn't agree to stay so..." I stare at her, completely bewildered. She looks apprehensive, licking her lips like she does when she is nervous.  
"You have to understand, Tom," she says. "There isn't going to be a party when Voyager comes home. Janeway will be a hero and then when the formalities and debriefings are through, they will march Chakotay, me, and the others off to some penal colony."  
I'm still in shock; in all of our years together, I had never imagined B'Elanna capable of such duplicity, not had I ever thought she would be afraid to face consequences.  
"I don't want to be locked up," she whispers.   
"That won't happen. Janeway won't allow it."   
"Why would she care?" B'Elanna flares. "She only cares about herself."   
"That's not true," I say, but silently, I agree; only a few months ago, I had confronted the Captain, demanding answers, and wondering why she put Voyager in unnecessary jeopardy.  
"It's true. She will show off Seven and she will talk about all the discoveries she made, about how she survived the Borg a million times, and in the midst of all that pomp, she'll forget about the Maquis."  
Where this stream of invective comes from baffles me; B'Elanna has been less than fiery since her return from the Borg. She is more low-key. There are times when I fear that if she gets much calmer, she will be comatose. In some ways, I'm glad the anger is back; dealing with her temper is something I can do. This other B'Elanna, the sedate B'Elanna, is not someone I know.  
"B'Elanna, I won't let you stay here."   
"Is that really your decision?" she asks.   
She has a point but I think she also knows that I won't leave her behind and now that we are married, my obligation to B'Elanna Torres has increased tenfold.  
Damn, she's good.  
"You're overreacting," I say firmly.   
She looks at me doubtfully, "You say things you want to believe, Tom. What happens when none of what you think will happen happens? Then what?"  
"I refuse to be pessimistic about our homecoming," I tell her. "I'll talk to Janeway myself, find out what she thinks of the situation."  
B'Elanna extends one hand, curling her fingers in and out. I am transfixed on this simple movement, imagining those long fingers against my cheek, my neck and then those nails, scratching my skin, drawing blood.   
"Or I'll talk to my father," I say suddenly.   
B'Elanna's head whips again, banging against the ceiling.   
"Ouch!" she exclaims.   
This time, I lean forward and gently touch her head. She leans forward, allowing me to see the slight bump already forming on her scalp. The skin is bruised, already smarting from impact.   
"I'll do whatever it takes," I tell her. "But you have to promise to trust me. Trust Starfleet."   
She gives me a look, one that usually would reduce me to a quivering mass, but I shrug it off. I have faced that famous temper of hers so many times that now it rolls off of me like water on oil.  
"I'd sooner trust a Cardassian," she says.   
"Oh that's great. You compare Starfleet to Cardassians. That's not a fair, B'Elanna."   
"If things were fair, we'd never have ended up in the Delta Quadrant," she swallows hard. "I would have finished what I had started and..."  
"You can't be blamed for not being there for-"   
"Easy for you to say. You've never seen anything through, have you?"   
I glare at her, "Fine, stay here."   
I get to my hands and knees and start crawling out. I'm almost a third of the way to the conduit opening when I turn. B'Elanna is still sitting there, her arms wrapped around her knees as she rocks back and forth.  
"You're wrong," I tell her. "I'm going to see this through."   
  
****   
  
It's easy to blame the Alpha Quadrant for what ails me.   
I don't care about penal colonies honestly. I hear the food is bad, the furniture is utilitarian and uncomfortable, and the clothes are itchy. Sounds a bit like Voyager, except that you can actually go outside.  
Putting my finger on the exact source of my discontent is more difficult. I might as well throw a dart at a wall or spin a wheel or something.   
Chakotay says when it comes to me, the list of possible suspects is endless.   
"I think you just like being difficult," he tells me as we hike through the Cascades. After my altercation with Tom in conduit thirteen, I took a few minutes to compose myself, and then commed Chakotay. He had suggested the holodeck and twenty minutes later, I am surrounded by towering pines beneath a deep blue sky.  
"That's not it," I object.   
"I think it is," Chakotay pauses at a fork in the trail. "You are afraid of going home but I don't think that's the only thing you're afraid of."  
"Are you a counselor now?"   
"I'm your friend."   
We turn right and for a few minutes, we don't speak.   
"You do realize that the Captain will never allow you to stay here," Chakotay says.   
"I wasn't planning on asking her."   
"Hmmm... now that sounds like the B'Elanna I know," Chakotay points out a rock ledge. He removes his pack and sits down; I follow suit. Our feet dangle off the edge; below us is a cover of lush green pine. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the roar of a waterfall.  
"Whose program is this?" I ask. "I've never seen it before."   
"I think it's a default," Chakotay answers as he hands me a water bottle. "I discovered it, um, when you were on the Borg cube."  
I pause in mid-drink, "Tom says no one used the holodeck while we were gone."   
"That is almost exactly the truth," Chakotay says. "I came in here just the one time to relax. I guess there are some things you want to do with a good friend and hiking is one of them; I left almost immediately."  
I lean forward, mentally trying to calculate the distance between the ground and me.   
"The holodeck safeties are on," Chakotay says. "Jump if you'd like. The most harm you can possibly do to yourself is a few scratches from the tree branches."  
I give him a sideways glance.   
"I'm not trying to kill myself," I tell him.   
"Sometimes it's hard to tell with you. One moment you're hurling yourself through space at a hundred kilometers an hour and then the next, you're volunteering for an insane mission on the Borg cube."  
I look at him in surprise; most of the time, he kowtows to Janeway, agreeing with everything she says as if she is never wrong. It makes me furious when Chakotay acts like a Starfleet officer, with his strict adherence to rules and regulations; it's almost as if he forgets he was - is - Maquis.  
"You didn't agree with the mission?" I ask.   
"No," he shakes his head. "It made me feel better that you and Tuvok were with her, but I still didn't feel good about it. I played out a thousand different scenarios in my head about what could possibly go wrong and it terrified me that we might not be able to get you back."  
"You sound like Tom."   
Chakotay offers me a cryptic smile. He reaches to the side and plucks pine needles off of a tree. He hands them to me.   
"He's a good man, B'Elanna," Chakotay says. "He doesn't deserve what you do to him."   
My fingers are sticky with sap and I turn my gaze downward in attempt to avoid Chakotay's eyes.   
"When did you and Tom, um, become so close?" I ask.  
"Close?" Chakotay snorts. "I doubt that that would ever be possible with Mr. Paris. You two are a lot alike, B'Elanna. I think that's the problem."  
"Excuse me?"  
"You're both hard to reach. You both coat yourselves with a shiny veneer, a personality that you want everyone else to see, but you never let anyone see below the surface. Sometimes, I wonder how I can reach out to either of you and with Tom, I think I had a breakthrough while you were gone," Chakotay says. He breaks a stick into little pieces and hurls them off into the distance. "For a few moments, I felt like he actually trusted me. That, B'Elanna, was a good feeling."  
"I can imagine," I tell Chakotay. "But I don't know what that has to do with me."  
"Yes, you do, because you're doing it again. You're putting up barriers the way you always do, but there is a difference this time. You know exactly what you are doing," he says. "I never thought of you as manipulative, but that's exactly what you're doing to Tom and I'm telling you, it has to stop."  
"That's between Tom and me."   
Chakotay heaves a sigh, "None of this has been easy for us, B'Elanna. I suppose it was more straightforward when we, Maquis and Starfleet, were united in a common goal - getting home. Now that we are so close, it's easy to lose sight of what binds us together and I want to believe something more holds us together than our original mission."  
I fling the needles over the edge of the rock, but some stick stubbornly to the palm of my hand. I pick the survivors off and then rub my hand against the rock in an attempt to remove the sap.  
"Here," Chakotay hands me the water bottle. "This might help."   
I pour the water over my hand, some of it splashing on my clothes. A breeze ruffles my hair and Chakotay glances upward.  
"It's getting cooler," he says. "Want to keep going? We should reach the summit before nightfall."   
"It's a holodeck program, Chakotay," I say. "We can always set back the chronometer."   
"That's cheating," Chakotay is already on his feet, shouldering his pack. "Are you coming?"   
We make our way up the trail, pausing at junctions in the trail to catch our breath or drink water.   
"I see from holodeck logs you've been running your Klingon battle simulations," Chakotay says casually during one such break.  
"Are you monitoring my activities now?"   
"I review all holodeck logs."   
"Since when?"   
Chakotay shrugs, "I like to know what the crew is up to."   
"Even the, um, private programs?"   
"It's not my intention to pry into the crew's privacy," he says sharply.   
"I should hope not," I answer. I brush past him to continue up on the path.   
"So when did you start reenacting famous Klingon battles?" he calls after me.   
"You ought to know. You're the one who is reviewing holodeck logs."   
"I imagine meditation doesn't work for you like it does for Tuvok."   
I whirl around, nearly breathless.   
"What does that mean?"   
Chakotay leans his shoulder against a tree, crossing his arms against his chest.   
"Tuvok meditates to control his emotions," Chakotay says. "We all have our own ways of escaping what bothers us, what haunts us and keeps us awake at night."  
"I'm certainly not escaping anything."   
"I believe that you believe that you are not escaping," Chakotay's face is grim. He takes a step towards me. "Kathryn and I have talked, B'Elanna. I know what happened on the Borg cube. I know about the assimilations."  
My eyes widen and I take a step backwards. I miss my footing and stumble over a root, landing painfully on my rear.   
"Are you okay?" Chakotay asks solicitously.   
"Fine," I hiss back.   
"The Captain has said that she has difficulty accepting her role in those assimilations," Chakotay goes on.   
"I'm not listening."   
Chakotay leans down and lifts my chin so that I'm staring directly into his liquid brown eyes. It surprises me now to recall that eight years ago, I would have done anything to find myself in such a position. Instead of his love, I had to settle for friendship.   
"You need help," Chakotay says. "You're not like Seven who was programmed from an early age to assimilate. She didn't know anything else really, barely could remember a life where she was not Borg. You are different."  
"I knew the risks when I went in," I answer. "I knew what might happen."   
"Just because you knew what might happen doesn't mean you were prepared for it," Chakotay says. He releases my chin and stands upright again. "Do you remember the first one?"  
"I don't want to talk about it."   
"Of course not," Chakotay says. "That's why you want to stay out here in the Delta Quadrant where no one will ask you the questions you don't want to answer."  
I cover my eyes with my hand, "Chakotay, I'm tired."   
"I know," he says; his voice, low and gentle, sends shivers down on my spine. Damn me and my stupid reactions. I'm a married woman now, hell, I was practically married before Tom and I exchanged vows. "B'Elanna, the transition isn't easy. One day you're B'Elanna Torres, the next you're Borg, and then it's back to B'Elanna again. Those kind of changes don't occur without some kind of trauma."  
He holds out a hand and I take it.   
"You don't want to stay here, B'Elanna," he says. "You just want to be comfortable and you're comfortable here, even though you hate everything about the Delta Quadrant. You know it too, B'Elanna, so stop saying that you aren't coming back with us, because you're lying to everyone and to yourself."  
I open my mouth to speak, but there is really nothing left to say; Chakotay has said everything that is inside of me and it amazes me how he can pull the exact words from inside of me and put them together into sentences, complete with nouns and verbs.  
"Let's go," he says. "We've been standing still too long."   
He pulls me to my feet in one smooth gesture.   
"There's another thing, B'Elanna. I see the divisions," Chakotay says over his shoulder as he continues on. "It worries me to see people separating into Maquis and Starfleet contingents. And it's not the Starfleet officers who are doing it, B'Elanna; it's the Maquis. Somehow, we Maquis manage to put distance between us and the people who care about us the most; it's an unnatural talent, B'Elanna, and not one that I'm particularly fond of. I expect that you, as a senior officer, will not contribute to the segregation. We've gone through a lot to become the crew we are today; I intend for it to stay that way."  
"You're asking for a lot."   
"I'm asking you to do your part," Chakotay says. "The rest is none of your concern. I'm asking that you don't perpetuate the division."  
"Are you afraid of going home?"   
"Afraid? No. Apprehensive? That's more like it."   
"Do you think they really will put us on trial?" I ask.   
Chakotay stops in his tracks, waits a second, and then turns.   
"Sounds like you plan on coming back to the Alpha Quadrant," he says.   
"Tom won't stay here," I say petulantly.   
"No," Chakotay says. "This time, he won't be the one running away."   
This last comment really hurts; I have always thought of myself as fairly strong, able to get through the toughest times. But I have to see now that I'm the one who is falling apart inside. It's almost like my insides have been shredded and my body is held together by the thinnest of skins.   
"Well?" I ask, choosing to ignore this last comment.   
"I wouldn't be surprised if questions are asked," Chakotay says. "I don't know what the consequences, if there are any, will be."  
We are now just a meter apart from each other.   
"For what it's worth," I tell him. "I don't regret my time with the Maquis."   
Chakotay quirks a smile, "I never thought you did. In fact, I think the Maquis made you the person you are today."   
"Don't forget the Borg."   
Chakotay's smile broadens.   
"What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. Isn't that right?" I continue.   
"Only if you let it out," Chakotay answers. "Otherwise it eats you up inside until there is nothing left."   
He reaches out and lightly touches my shoulder, "Come back, B'Elanna."   
Then Chakotay turns and heads down the trail.   
I stare after his retreating figure in wonderment. It startles me how Chakotay can get to me. It's absolutely amazing the way he gets beneath my skin and manages to find all of the right emotional buttons to press. Once again, that wistful dream of mine, that little girl's fantasy of Chakotay whisking me away into the sunset, tugs at my memory. I smile to myself and then follow him down the path.  
  
****  
  
Janeway has called what she terms "an emergency brainstorming session." In other words, it's a senior staff meeting, called at the last minute, because she is panicking in the way only Janeway panics: calmly and utterly unruffled.  
She is leaning back in her chair, her fingers stroking her chin; she is turned away from most of us, though she faces Chakotay at an angle.  
B'Elanna sits across from me, doing her studious best to avoid my gaze. I have spent the last two hours trying to track her down, only to find out she was in the holodeck with Commander Chakotay. I personally do not know what anyone can say or do with Chakotay for more than ten minutes so it baffles me that B'Elanna spent so much time with him.   
I'm sitting in between Harry and Seven and then across the table, between Chakotay and B'Elanna, sits the good Doctor. Tuvok remains standing, which makes me think that this will be a relatively short meeting; for that small concession, I would be exceedingly happy because I want to talk to B'Elanna desperately.  
"I have noticed," Janeway begins, her voice scratchy with emotion, "a certain tension between some members of our crew."  
B'Elanna shifts uncomfortably in her chair. Chakotay looks down at his fingers. For myself, I love Janeway's euphemism for the growing dislike between Starfleet and Maquis.  
"I want you all to be clear on this," Janeway rotates her chair so she is now facing us, both elbows on the table as she surveys each of us in turn. "We are one crew and we will remain so. Going home changes nothing."  
"If you are referring to the coldness between Starfleet and Maquis," the Doctor began. "The divisions have always been there, only they are more prominent now."  
"I'm aware of that, Doctor, which is why I admonish you all to do your best to avoid these types of. divisions," Janeway says. "I expect you all to remain supportive of each other. Dismissed."  
Chakotay is immediately out of his side and by his captain's chair. She turns her chair towards the window, so Chakotay has to turn his back to us so he can speak to her.  
"Hey, Tom, if you aren't busy, want to meet in the holodeck?" Harry asks me in a low voice.  
My eyes are fixed on B'Elanna, "Maybe another time. I've got something to fix."  
"The car? The Flyer?"  
"No," I nod towards B'Elanna. "Something infinitely more important."  
Out in the corridor, I catch up to B'Elanna. She looks at me and her gaze is slightly cannibalistic; this is a good sign - I feel the need to devour her myself.  
"We need to talk," I tell her, clutching her forearm in case my Klingon darling takes it into her head to hide in another EPS conduit. B'Elanna's face softens just a bit.  
"I know," she says. "Uh, my quarters?"  
At least I know I'm not in the doghouse anymore. I don't know what she did in the holodeck for two hours, but it seems to have a positive effect on her; B'Elanna no longer looks as if she is going to rip my larynx out if I try to speak.  
Once in her quarters, B'Elanna strips off her uniform jacket, tossing it carelessly across the back of the sofa.  
"One thing I'm not going to miss when we get back are these uniforms," she says casually.  
"So you've changed your mind," I say. "About staying here in the Delta Quadrant."  
B'Elanna curls up on the sofa and pats the seat next to her. I accept the invitation and lean back against the sofa, not quite touching her.   
"I suppose that was a foolish idea," she says.  
"No, it wasn't. I think you just have some things you need to work out and it's easier here where you don't have the baggage that you have in the Alpha Quadrant."  
"Tom," B'Elanna knits her fingers together. "I was wrong, I'm sorry."  
"There's no need to apologize," I say. "What were you doing in the holodeck?"  
"Hiking," she answers. "Chakotay found this old program of a hiking trail back on Earth. It was invigorating."  
"Ah," I look at her; damn if she doesn't look serene. I feel a slight tinge of jealousy because I have never put that look on B'Elanna's face. Chakotay, on the other hand, yields this enormous influence over her and he manages to bring her a sense of inner peace that I cannot. It's hard to compete with that kind of power. He makes her happy and I, well, I just make her mad. Ying and yang, Chakotay and I are. Between us, we keep B'Elanna in a constant state of flux. More than anything, I want that to change. I want to be the calming influence in her life just as I am the irritant.  
"We talked," B'Elanna says.  
I lean my head back, focusing on the ceiling. Of course she talked to Chakotay, she always does. The two of us, B'Elanna and I, banter back and forth, but never do we truly talk to each other. I have Harry and she has Chakotay.  
B'Elanna gets on her knees as she turns to face me. She leans forward, her hand cold against my cheek.  
"I should have been talking to you, Tom," she says very softly. My eyes fly open.   
"What?" I croak. If I weren't already sitting, I would have fallen over.  
"There are things I haven't told you," she says. "About my time with the Borg."  
"I'm listening."  
B'Elanna looks down at her hands, "This isn't easy for me, Tom, and I don't know where to begin. I just know that I don't want to run away. Not this time."  
I fumble for her hand, "Take your time, okay?"  
"You might hate me when I tell you."  
"I don't think that could happen."  
"It's worse than you think."  
"It could be, but then again, it might not be."  
We exchange a smile and then she gets up off the couch, still holding my hand. She leads me into the bedroom, that enigmatic smile crossing her lips as she glances over her shoulder back at me.  
She pulls back the covers and then pushes me down.  
"B'Elanna," I say. For once, physical intimacy isn't the answer; I want to talk.  
"Shhh," she puts her finger to her lips. I lay back against the cushions as she curls up next to me, pulling the blankets over us. "I want to tell you something."  
I wrap my arm around her and she rests her head on my chest.  
"When I was Borg, I assimilated people," she says very slowly. My grip on her body tightens a bit and she presses herself closer to me. "Shhh, Tom. Don't say anything, okay?"  
"All right."  
"I remember," B'Elanna says. "I wake up in the middle of night because I think I'm in mid-assimilation. Either I'm getting assimilating or I'm assimilating someone else."  
"Oh B'Elanna."  
"There are one hundred and eighty-seven steps in the assimilation process," B'Elanna whispers. "The first step is the sedation of the victim. The second step involves the injection of nanoprobes into the blood stream, and in the third step, you begin the process of networking the new drone's brain into the neuromatrix."  
She pauses, breathing deeply, "It goes on like that, Tom, and sometimes, I get on stuck on a step, say step ninety-two, which is, um, the enhancement of vision - you know, the ocular implant? I messed that up, I think, a few times. I was never, um, um, good at that step."  
"B'Elanna, it's all right."  
Her fingers rub the fabric of my jacket; she raises herself up on an elbow and looks down at me.  
"Are you warm? Do you want to take off your jacket?"  
I sit up and shrug out of the jacket. B'Elanna doesn't look at me as she lies back down, her eyes focused on the ceiling. I lay back down next to her, careful not to touch her.  
"I think I assimilated a thousand people," she says. "I asked Tuvok once. I said to him `how many?' and he couldn't answer. He told me it was illogical to try and guess since the number would be inaccurate. But I have to know, Tom, I have to."  
"Is that why you're angry with Janeway?" I ask softly. "Is this why you don't trust her?"  
"What?"  
"Because she volunteered herself for this mission and you went with her, thinking it was the loyal thing to do and then you found yourself in a position that compromised your principles."  
B'Elanna inhales deeply, "I became the thing I hate the most, Tom. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I see that Borg face of mine staring back or I look at Seven and I remember something awful and I'm cold. So cold, Tom."  
"It's all right," I tell her as she rolls back into my arms.   
"There's more, Tom," she swallows hard. "When I walk the halls of Voyager, I feel like there just might be a drone around every corner. Sometimes I hear their voices in my head or I hear screams of the victims. I can't get away from it."  
I squeeze her hand, "I'm glad you're finally telling me."  
"I don't feel better. I thought I would but I don't."  
"It's going to take a while, B'Elanna, but I'm glad you decided to tell me. We'll work it out, okay?"  
She cuddles closer and I revel in the softness of her, relishing that I can hold her in my arms, and feel her warm breath against my cheek. During the time she was gone, I felt as my right arm had been ripped off. With B'Elanna, I am complete.  
What she doesn't know is that I would not have left her behind. If she had truly decided to stay in the Delta Quadrant, running from the demons in the Alpha Quadrant, my choice was clear: I would have stayed also.  
  
****  
  
Janeway and Chakotay's admonishments aside, the segregation between Maquis and Starfleet continues. Somehow, it just happens.  
The duty assignments are given out arbitrarily, yet I notice the Maquis take to the second level of engineering while the Starfleet engineers stay on the first level. In one thing, the lines blur and they are united: uniformly, they all stay out of my way.  
I stand in front of the warp core, hands on hips, surveying the situation. The right thing to do - what the captain and Chakotay would want me to do - is to break up the teams and shift people around.  
But I can't lie - my loyalties lie with the Maquis. Once a Maquis, always a Maquis, and we know that whatever trials are ahead of us in the Alpha Quadrant, we Maquis will stick together while pompous Starfleet asses rack us for crimes committed seven years ago.  
I imagine claiming "principle of the matter" is not an acceptable defense strategy, so we might as well leave our principles en masse in the Delta Quadrant.  
It's not that we Maquis are afraid of the consequences, it's just we need to solidify our ties with those who will stand by us, no matter what. Why try to work on a relationship when you know that the other person won't give you the time of day once D-Day (as I've started to think of our return to the Alpha Quadrant) arrives.  
"Vorik," I approach the Vulcan. "How are things going?"  
"I have finished realigning the plasma manifolds," he says. "They should be operating at peak efficiency now."  
"Good job," I look over his work. As usual, Vorik's penchant for perfectionism shows clearly. "Do you mind helping Janus-"  
I pause as trepidation crosses Vorik's face. I grab his shoulder and propel him into a quiet section of Engineering, well away from the others.  
"Is there a problem?" I ask sharply.  
"I had intended to work with Lieutenant Carey on the-"  
"Scratch that," I tell him fiercely. "Joe can handle the job himself. He doesn't need you to help run a diagnostic on isolinear chips. A first year could do it alone. I want you to help Janus realign the relays. Is that clear?"  
Vorik nods and I release his shoulders. I let my breath out slowly, my eyes still on Vorik's face.  
"I know what's going on," I tell him softly. "Don't think I don't see it and I know what everyone's thinking. We're going home and eventually, we're going to go our own ways, but that's in a few days. Right now, we're still on Voyager and we're still one crew. Do you understand?"  
"Yes, Lieutenant."  
I turn to look back at Engineering; action has all but stopped and most eyes are turned to me. I can see the challenge unspoken in their expressions and I know they are daring me to say something, but I find that I cannot. Everyone might as well know that I too want to run in the opposite direction and get as far away from Starfleet as I possibly can.  
"Back to work, everyone!" I call out. I look back at Vorik. At least I won't have to lie to Janeway; I did try, only my heart wasn't in the effort - but she does not need to know that.  
"Do not let me down, Vorik."  
He nods and heads to the second level to work with Janus. I lean back against the wall and watch his progress. Janus looks visibly disturbed at Vorik's arrival and voices rise in dismay as Vorik begins to work. After a few minutes, Janus joins in.  
The problem is, I can't walk the talk. I understand instinctively what Janeway is saying and I know that we need to remain one crew and not promote separate factions; it's just that my heart belongs firmly with the Maquis. I never wanted to wear a Starfleet uniform and even now, sometimes I look at myself in the mirror, staring at that mustard yellow and black fashion faux pas and cringe.   
It was much better on the Borg cube.  
You didn't form alliances nor did you have thoughts. You just were. The Queen dictated, you listened, and not for a moment, did you feel remorse or pity for your actions.  
There are advantages to being a drone.  
No wonder Seven kept trying to form her own little collectives when she first came on Voyager.  
I brush my hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ear, before joining Nicoletti.   
Janeway lives in some kind of Utopia, a Borg kind of world, I think. She can spout philosophy about staying together, but guess what? I don't buy it. Not for a single minute. It's not worth expending the energy on something I don't believe in and never have I believed in Starfleet or anything remotely associated with that stuffy establishment.  
I am Maquis.  
Don't try to tell me that Starfleet sees anything about me other than that one fact.   
And don't try to convince me Starfleet cares because it doesn't. When it comes to the Maquis, Starfleet ranks us somewhere below the common terrorist but slightly above the Genoran firefly.  
I guess it's always good to know where you stand.  
  
****  
  
We slip into the Alpha Quadrant when most onboard Voyager are still sleeping. I only notice because I'm at the helm and the senior staff is on the Bridge.  
"We're being hailed," Harry tells the Captain.   
Janeway is on her feet, "On screen."  
The enormous face of one Admiral Rodney McArthur fills the screen. If he sits any closer to his view screen, we might be able to see his pores.  
"Welcome home, Captain," the Admiral says.   
"It's good to be back," she answers.  
"Preparations have been made for your arrival at Starbase 87," the Admiral says.   
"Good," Janeway says. "We should be there in about eight hours."  
"It's good to see you again, Kathryn," the Admiral continues. He looks around the Bridge, his gaze sweeping over each one of us. "We have a lot to discuss when you get to the Starbase."  
"I look forward to it."  
"Until then," the Admiral bestows a smile upon the Captain; I'll bet he was a real heartbreaker, say, fifty years ago. The view screen goes blank and is immediately replaced by the blue and white Federation/Starfleet logo.  
"Now that's a sight for sore eyes," Harry declares. "Real proof that we are finally home."  
"It doesn't feel any different than the Delta Quadrant," B'Elanna says. I can extrapolate, from the tone of her voice, exactly the way she is standing, shoulders back and stiff, arms crossed stubbornly across her chest.   
"Except that the star maps in our database actually match up with a known sector?" Harry offers.  
"It's like a birthday," B'Elanna argues back. "You officially get a year older on a specific day but it doesn't feel any different than the previous day or even the day before that."  
"Your comparison is flawed. The Alpha Quadrant and birthdays have nothing in common," Seven interjects.  
"I'm just saying, I don't feel any more at home in the Alpha Quadrant than I did in the Delta Quadrant. Is that all right with you?" B'Elanna is spitting fire now.  
"Seven, Lieutenant," Janeway gets up from her chair, but there is a smile in her voice.   
My wife bristles.   
My wife.  
It's odd. We have been married for three days now yet this is the first time I have actually referred - even if only in my thoughts - to B'Elanna as my wife. And like so many other things, the transition from girlfriend to wife was so subtle, I never even noticed.  
B'Elanna's right; it should have felt different when we crossed from Delta to Alpha. There should have been fireworks or, I don't know, but there should have been something. Instead there is nothing.  
Janeway however looks like a cat that just swallowed the last bit of catnip left in the galaxy. If her smile gets any wider, her ears are going to have to move back to make room.  
Chakotay looks tense, unbelievably tense. In some ways, he looks like the man I remember from five months ago, the one who couldn't make up his mind about what to do about the Borg.  
I have to cut him slack though; I wouldn't have known what to do in that situation.  
If ever I was face to face with the Borg Queen, I think my first instinct would be to hop into the Delta Flyer and hope against hopes that I could outrun the cube. And then, when they did finally catch up to me, I would hope that assimilation would be relatively painless.  
I know now, after talking to B'Elanna, that assimilation is not painless and that even after de-assimilation, the pain lingers, carried on the backs of nanoprobes still stubbornly flowing through her blood.   
"Do you think they have a welcome party for us?" Harry asks.  
Harry would be the one to ask. Sometimes, I want to smack my friend to try to get some of that naiveté out of his head.   
"I wouldn't expect so," Chakotay responds even before Janeway's lips part. Janeway's head whirls around and she looks at Chakotay sternly; to his credit, he does not wilt.  
"I would think there would be some kind of fanfare," the Doctor says. I have no doubt that the Doctor has already prepared some kind of slide show for the Alpha Quadrant; left to his own devices, he would certainly tour the galaxy, showing off indigenous species of flora and fauna from the Delta Quadrant. Every presentation, of course, would feature a long-winded speech filled with more adjectives and adverbs than necessary. "After all, we have been gone for seven years. Surely there would be some interest in our return."  
"Too much interest, if you ask me," Chakotay mutters.  
B'Elanna catches that; she is quick, my wife is.  
"What do you mean?" B'Elanna demands.  
"Now, Lieutenant," Tuvok says.   
"No, I want answers," B'Elanna says. "Is there something we should know? Captain?"  
Janeway's eyes are hard; diamonds couldn't cut the glassy surface of her expression.   
"Captain?" B'Elanna says again.   
There is utter silence on the Bridge; we are all waiting with bated breath.  
"If you're concerned about what Starfleet intends to do with us," B'Elanna says, "you don't need to be. We already know so it's no use saying nothing at all."  
Janeway clears her throat. Seven tilts her head questioningly; unfortunately, the Doctor has yet to cover body language with her and so, she remains in the dark, unversed in the subtleties of silent communication.  
"That's enough, Lieutenant," Janeway says sharply.  
Janeway's tone suffocates all conversation on the Bridge. B'Elanna bends her dark head over her console and Chakotay moves uncomfortably in his seat. Even the Doctor seems perturbed though I doubt it's because of anything B'Elanna might have said.  
So we enter the Alpha Quadrant just as we left it: at odds with each other.  
  
****  
Starbase 87 hangs in space, tilting at an awkward sixty-degree angle, some of its decks held together by force fields. Some of its communication array towers are bent or broken off completely. Construction crews in EVA suits are tethered to various spots on the station, bouncing off of the panels as they conduct repairs.  
It is not the most inviting place I've ever seen. Even the Borg cube looks like the lap of luxury in comparison.  
The minute Tom pilots the ship smoothly into the docking bay, I flee from the Bridge, not waiting for Janeway's dismissal. At this particular point, I am beyond reprimands.   
Instead, I retreat to the holodeck, the quietest place on Voyager and it isn't long before Tom joins me.  
"I thought you might be here," he says.   
Once again, I'm running the beach program. Today, there is a light wind blowing through the palm trees. In the distance, we can make out the faint shimmers of a sailboat gliding across the seemingly smooth surface of the water. I have picked late evening so I can watch what I believe is my last sunset as a free woman.  
I am still in my uniform, but have stripped off my shoes and socks, letting my toes dig into the sand.  
"Are you all right?" Tom asks, sitting on the lawn chair directly behind me. "I was worried when you stormed off the Bridge like that."  
"She was lying," I answer, my gaze focused straight ahead. "I despise that."  
"What do you want her to say? That yes, there will be a special committee working on an extra special homecoming for the Maquis?"  
"If that's the truth, then yes, that's what I want her to say."  
"Is this another pity party, B'Elanna? Because I'm getting tired of this."  
"I'm not feeling sorry for myself," I tell him. "I just want whatever is going to happen. I'm here now even though I don't want to be and if I'm going to prison, I want them to just tell me. I want Janeway to tell me. I think she owes me that much."  
I don't turn around, but I can imagine Tom leaning forward, his forearms on his knees, and his fingers knit together in nervousness.  
"Have you talked to the Doctor lately?" he asks softly.   
"I am not suffering from post-traumatic stress or whatever that is," I shoot back.  
"I think you are," Tom says. "You need medical help."  
"I don't think so," I get to my feet, rubbing the sand off of my pants as I rise.   
Tom catches my arm and pulls me down on to the chair next to him. "Chakotay said as much, Tom. Said that Starfleet hasn't forgotten; that they are just waiting at the airlock for us."  
Tom rubs my shoulders, easing the tension out of them, "And if it's true?"  
"I don't know," I say. "I guess it doesn't matter, does it? It was only a matter of time. This could have happened anytime, ten years ago or today. Except it's much worse today, much worse."  
"You don't know for sure what's going to happen."  
I turn to smile at him, putting my fingers to his lips, and then tracing the strong curve of his jaw.  
"I'll miss you," I whisper. His hand tightens on my shoulder.  
"I suppose I can give you tips about New Zealand," he says. "You know, give you the ins and outs of the place."  
"That would be nice," I answer.  
"It's not so bad," he says. "Food's terrible."  
"That's what I hear."  
The sun is now a thin sliver in the distance, lavender blending into a periwinkle sky tinged with gold.  
"You can have the house ready when I get back," I tell him. "Ten, twenty years, you should have it perfect."  
Tom holds my hand in his; his sweaty palms are clammy against mine.  
"It better not be that long," his voice is very low. "I know we haven't quite seen eye to eye for the last few weeks, but I want you to know that I will do everything I can if, and I say if, you do end up in prison."  
I touch his cheek with my palm and somehow, he gathers me into his arms and we lay back down, my cheek against his chest.  
I love moments like this when all is silent with the exception of our breathing and our hearts. Sometimes, I try to match my breath with his, thinking that this simple act of living can be another way of binding us closer together.   
His fingers run through my hair, his nose just above my head.  
I tighten my hold on his shoulder, thinking that the might be the last time we're together and then I'm suddenly and inexplicably furious - if we had stayed in the Delta Quadrant, we would not be in this situation, facing the very real possibility of saying good-bye.  
We fall asleep like this, our bodies curled together.   
When I wake, the holodeck is pitch dark.  
"Tom?" I whisper.  
"What is it?" his voice is groggy, still heavy with sleep.  
"It's.," I look around. "Dark. Very dark."  
"It's nothing, B'Elanna," he says. "It's just before dawn."  
"How do you know?"  
"They say that the darkest hour is just before the sun rises again," he mumbles.   
I shift my weight so I'm lying almost completely on top of him. Our lips meet hungrily and his hands are suddenly everywhere as are mine.  
We don't speak as our bodies mesh together, as he sinks deeply into me, his mouth nipping at my cheek. My hands rest on the small of his back as I inhale, memorizing his scent, the way his body fits mine so perfectly, and of course, the way his breath blows warm against my skin.  
The sun comes up and we lie there, our hands intertwined, still not speaking.   
At some point, Tom sits up, gets dressed and then holds his hand out to me. I understand instinctively and again, he grabs me by the waist.  
"Whatever happens," he says. "It doesn't matter. I'll wait for you."  
I touch his cheek gently, "I know."  
We are still sticky with each other and I can smell myself on his skin. When we part ways at the holodeck door, I return to my quarters but I am reluctant to wash his scent off of me.  
I shed my Starfleet uniform on the floor, kicking it out of the way as I slip out of bra and panties on my way into the bathroom. I activate the sonic shower, leaning against the wall, barely feeling the gentle pulses against my skin.  
When I emerge, I don't look at my discarded clothes, but rather head to the closet and pull out the brown-red tunic and brown pants I discarded seven years ago.  
I look in the mirror, hoping to see some of Starfleet left in me, but I have rejected that persona as easily as my now despised uniform.  
I am ready when Chakotay appears at my door. Like me, he is no longer wearing his Starfleet uniform.  
"Ready?" he asks in a low voice.  
"Yes," I answer. And with those whom we had formerly called friends, still in their Starfleet uniforms, watching, Chakotay and I leave Voyager.  
  
~ End Part I ~  
  
Night  
  
I think a part of me has always existed in a state of denial. Even when we were lost in the Delta Quadrant, a part of me refused to believe that going home might not be an option.   
Chakotay says that stubbornness isn't necessarily a character flaw but then, he doesn't see what I see: a crew that has needlessly been put in danger time and time again and yes, some of those perilous situations could have been avoided.  
Just admitting this last part is a big step for me and I wish I could tell everyone - Tom, B'Elanna, Tuvok, Neelix, Seven, the Doctor and Chakotay - that I was wrong so many times and I am sorry.  
But right now isn't the time for apologies. Instead I am in my ready room, Chakotay and Tuvok sitting opposite me.  
Chakotay has already discarded his Starfleet uniform in favor of more casual attire; I make no statement regarding this wardrobe change. After all, what is there to say? Sometimes silence speaks louder than words and Chakotay has already realized what lies ahead.  
I know B'Elanna certainly has. I heard the challenge in her voice when we were on the Bridge and I wanted to tell her right there what I thought was going to happen, but I knew she would not listen.  
"The Maquis are ready," Chakotay says in a low voice. I flinch at the use of the word "Maquis"; I associate that term with terrorists, not with the people who have served this ship loyally for the last seven years.  
"A full security detail will meet you at the airlock," Tuvok says. My Vulcan friend shifts uncomfortably in his chair.   
"I am sorry," I tell Chakotay. "I did everything I could to convince them that you, B'Elanna, the others - that all of this was a mistake. Unfortunately, the Federation has a memory like an elephant."  
"Some things never change," Chakotay says. "It's all right, Kathryn."  
"You don't need to worry about Admiral McArthur," I say. "We served together years ago. I was still an ensign, I believe, on Admiral Paris' ship. McArthur was first officer. He's a good man, Chakotay. He will do what's right."  
"You trust him?" Chakotay's voice is very low so I have to strain to hear the words. I know what he's asking; he is questioning my willingness to let Federation authorities take custody of my Maquis crewmen.  
"I do," I nod. "He, he does what's fair, Chakotay. And I have already put in a good word for you."  
"That's very kind of you."  
I get up from my chair and look out the windows at Starbase 87. It is the saddest space station I've ever seen; in fact, it looks like it has spent more time in the Delta Quadrant than Voyager has.  
"There's nothing kind about it," I say in a harsh voice. "Chakotay, you and the other former Maquis were - are - a part of this crew. You served Voyager well," I lift my hand because I cannot find the words I need. "I will do everything I can, Chakotay. You can count on me."  
Chakotay nods, "I'm sure of that."  
I lean back against the wall, my hands clutching the slightly indented pillar on either side of my thighs.  
"I searched the codes yesterday," I tell him. "I wanted to see if there was something I could do for you, maybe political asylum."  
"Stretching a bit, are you, Kathryn?"  
I nod, "It doesn't matter. I cannot do without the Federation's permission. I am sorry."  
"It doesn't matter, Kathryn, believe me."  
"And there is one more thing, Chakotay," I say. "If there is an inquiry about me and I want you, all of you, to be perfectly candid. Say what you need to say."  
"An inquiry?" Chakotay raises an eyebrow. "What for?"  
"You know there have been some situations that were less then... ideal. Circumstances that may not necessarily have complied with Starfleet or Federation regulations," I say delicately. "And then there have been the crew members who have died while under my command. All of this needs to be investigated. It's procedure."  
"Too many procedures, if you ask me," Chakotay nearly growls.  
I laugh halfheartedly. When we had started on this mission, I had said that we would be a Starfleet vessel, but what had we ended up with instead? Certainly not Starfleet and definitely not Maquis. Our one saving grace is that we are not like the crew of the Equinox, desperate and, in my eyes, guilty of the unforgivable.  
"Don't forget the Seventh Guarantee," I say.  
"I won't," Chakotay says. "They drilled that into our heads back at the Academy. Protection against self-incrimination. It may be too late for that, Captain."  
"I didn't think this day would ever come," I am now talking more to myself than to Tuvok or Chakotay. "And now that we are here, it seems unreal that they would investigate a fifth of my crew. There may be a trial, Chakotay."  
"A trial would be the logical conclusion given the Federation's view on the Maquis, but this is simply a questioning session," Tuvok begins but slowly starts to drift off. He looks at me and then at Chakotay, his lips drawn into a thin line. "I do think an exception could have been made in this case."  
"I appreciate that, Tuvok," Chakotay says. He gets to his feet, takes a long look around, breathing in deeply. "I'm going to miss this. Really."  
I extend my hand and Chakotay reaches forward to grasp it, his fingers brushing the back of my hand for a full second before his fingers weave in with mine.  
"It was an honor to have you as my first officer," I tell him.  
Chakotay nods and then he says, "I should go."  
He glances at Tuvok who is now standing. They depart and I stay there, staring out of the window at the decrepit space station, wondering what I could have done differently.  
  
****  
  
The Federation questioners ask us to start at the beginning but I don't where that is. I could start with the day I was born, how I came into this world blue in the face with my maternal grandfather chanting over my mother in an effort to keep away the evil spirits who might harm the child. I could spin a tale about my boyhood days and dwell for a bit on the time I spent at a summer camp, learning how to tie knots and build a fire - skills that later aided me greatly in my future occupation as a Maquis terrorist. Or maybe, they would be more interested in my aborted career in Starfleet. I could tell them that one day, I realized that there were causes that meant more than a pip on your collar. And so I walked away from Starfleet, its stiffly starched uniforms and stifling rules and regulations that sucked the very soul out of me.  
But no, they are not interested in any of that. And frankly, I'd be amused if they asked but these men and women are the type to take personal offense at any slight disregard of Starfleet, whether intentional or not.  
And believe me, everything is intentional on my part.  
There are four of them in this room. I did not get their names when they introduced themselves quickly, none of them making eye contact with me or B'Elanna as they spit out their information rapid-fire.   
I think they place us on the same level as the Ghasa virus, which kills by attaching itself to the outer membrane of blood cells and then injects itself into the cell until the cell is forced to burst from the pressure.   
The room is nothing to write home about either. It has four walls, a ceiling and floor, and all done up in tasteful gray with bright lights in each of the upper four corners. Two of the spotlights shine directly down on B'Elanna and me, and we sometimes have to blink to keep black spots from completely obscuring the faces of the four people seated in front of us.  
B'Elanna hasn't said anything in an hour. She is quiet, not restless, and I don't know what she is thinking. Maybe it's better that I don't know.  
Hell, I don't even know what I'm thinking. Sometimes, I'm thinking about dinner, which won't be much more than zero-gravity rations - the kind you have to drink from metallic packets - and other times, my thoughts drift to the mundane like the street where I grew up. And then, most painful of all, I think of Kathryn.  
I see her chestnut-red hair brushing against her cheeks, her eyes looking at up at me from beneath her eyelids. I hear her low moans in my ear, and imagine her skin under my wandering fingertips.  
I've figured out that the Federation, and by the associative principle, Starfleet also, wants to know about Kathryn, but they don't want to know about the Kathryn whom I've come to know.  
They already know what they want to hear and they are only waiting for me to talk so they can condemn Kathryn legally for whatever they have already tried her for in secret.  
When they are done with us, the Maquis, they will start on Kathryn. There will be no deals. We hand them Kathryn and win ourselves an all-expense paid trip to New Zealand or some other equally luxurious prison colony.  
"Start at the beginning," one of them said and I know they are talking about Voyager.  
I can tell you the date and time when I first beamed onto the Bridge, but I can't tell you anything more concrete than that; my time on Voyager is hopelessly fragmented, a kaleidoscope of memory, thought and experiences. Each piece is colored by emotion, tainted by disappointment and shattered by betrayal.  
Nothing is coherent, nothing is linear.  
I look over at B'Elanna; she is bent over her fingernails, examining the rough edges of her nails, sure sign of her nervousness.  
In front of us, the four of them - I've already started to think of the Federation as "them" - sit, their fingers tapping against their PADDs.  
"What would you like to know?" I ask.  
  
****  
  
I refuse to watch them march the Maquis off like common criminals. I have done everything to prevent their apprehension, everything, that is, short of getting down on my knees in front of the Federation brass, that is.  
I do, after all, still have my pride.  
The ship feels empty without them.   
I wander the corridors, noting the abandoned stations once capably manned by Maquis officers.   
They have not allowed me to see them either. I have asked, begged, pleaded... use whatever verb you'd like, I've done that.  
And still the response is a stoic, "Not at this time, Captain."  
"Will there be a trial?" I demanded.   
"We have not made a decision about that yet, Captain. We're simply in the fact-gathering stage."  
"If there is a trial, I want to be there."  
And again, their faces cloud over, freeze into an inscrutable expression, and they shake their heads.  
At least Tuvok has been able to see Chakotay and B'Elanna for short periods of time and he brings me back news.  
"B'Elanna has threatened to cause bodily harm to at least one of the guards," Tuvok says as we walk through the rather barren corridors of Voyager.  
"You're not serious," I have to chuckle. I can imagine B'Elanna, her eyes flashing and her every muscle tensing as she crouches, ready position, in anticipation of a fight.   
"I'm afraid that I am."  
"And Chakotay?"  
"Calm."  
That is not unexpected; even in the worst situations, Chakotay is irritatingly composed. Heat doesn't rise in his cheeks as it does in mine when faced with a desperate situation. He radiates self-possession and I envy that particular trait of his. I miss that.  
I miss him.  
"Have they begun questioning?" I ask.  
"Yes."  
"Without you?"  
"They are talking about Voyager. I do not believe they are discussing the Maquis as of yet," Tuvok uses the word "discuss" with distaste.  
"Then that will keep them busy," I shudder to think of what the Federation will learn of our seven years in the Delta Quadrant. I'm not ashamed, but I'm not sure that they will understand either.  
"You have nothing to be concerned about," Tuvok says.  
"You're wrong," I tell him.  
"You are referring to your frequent violations of the Prime Directive."  
We stop. All around us, the halls of Voyager are maddeningly bereft of life. Some of the crew from the lower decks have been given permission by Starfleet Command to leave the ship and explore the starbase. With their absence and that of the Maquis, Voyager no longer feels like the same ship.  
"Yes," I nod.   
"Circumstances dictate actions, Captain."  
"Not always. We were supposed to be a Starfleet ship and sometimes, we strayed from our purpose. I would not be surprised if there was a court martial waiting for me. Perhaps, they are just trying to gather the necessary evidence."  
"I do not think that that is a possibility."  
"You're being a friend, Tuvok," I say gently. "I need you to be an advisor now. I need you to be rational and logical."  
"What is your concern?"  
"The Borg," I straighten myself, thrusting my shoulders back. "There is so much... I don't know where to begin."   
"There is nothing to say," Tuvok says evenly.   
"For you and me," I answer. "What about B'Elanna?"  
Tuvok grows pensive. He has not thought about it but I have; B'Elanna has been remote, fidgety, since our return from the Borg cube. I have no doubt she forced Tom to marry her during a mood swing and for that reason I was reluctant to perform the ceremony. In truth, I have always felt the combination of Tom and B'Elanna is similar to dropping a piece of sodium in water and watching the silvery metal give off sparks and then eventually cause a minor explosion. So yes, I admit it - I did not want to marry them.  
And the other thing that occurred to me is a little more shameful to admit; it is the fact that I do feel a bit possessive of Tom. I rescued him, I rehabilitated him, gave him a chance when no one else would and he, well, with his marriage to B'Elanna, he no longer needs me.   
"Captain?" Tuvok asks. "What about B'Elanna?"  
"What about her?" I snap. "She knew the consequences when she volunteered for the mission. The Doctor has offered her counseling. What more do you want?"  
"You should have insisted," Tuvok says. "B'Elanna is still loyal to you, Captain, but I am concerned about her well-being. You should have insisted that she seek medical help."  
"I can't force a horse to water, Tuvok. She didn't go."  
"I do not know what kind of questions they will ask," Tuvok's face is pensive, concerned. "It is an unusual situation."  
"Are you worried about B'Elanna specifically?"  
"Since I do not understand the reason for the proceedings, I must evaluate all possibilities," he says. "It would illogical to do otherwise."  
"The Doctor could make a recommendation," I say hastily. "They need to release B'Elanna because of her medical condition."  
Tuvok looks at me, his face calm and expressionless as usual, but his jaw firm.  
"I could recommend the same be done for you," he says in a low voice.  
With that, he turns and leaves me in the corridor, alone and with my back against the wall.  
  
****  
  
There were twenty of us in the beginning. For a Maquis cell, that was pretty large; most Maquis cells numbered less than ten. The fewer people involved in an operation, the less likely the possibility of a leak.  
I miss those days, miss the camaraderie. Rules and regulations sometimes take away the spontaneity of humanoid interactions. In Starfleet, you hide behind titles and codes of conduct; we didn't have that - only each other.  
You get to know each other very well in the Maquis, only because there is no one else to talk to. Even then, trust is a very uneasy thing; alliances are ever-shifting, changing like the tides of the ocean. One day you believe so fervently in the cause, and then it's back to the Federation because you are tired of being cold, hungry, wounded and hunted. And then, when you are tired of the two-faced sanctimony of the Federation, you slip underground back to the Maquis.  
Dark circles rim your eyes, giving unspoken testimony to long sleepless nights and your sole companion is a malfunctioning phaser rifle.  
Tension grips your forehead, sometimes extending back down to your neck and into your back muscles. Jaws are tight, nasal passages congested and voices are hoarse from constant screaming. Sometimes, your eyes water from the smoke and your throat aches from the burns you feel but cannot see.  
There were no medications, not really. We had a doctor or two, but they had no supplies. They would patch you up as best they could, sometimes slipping you a drop of Romulan brandy as they set your broken bones, and then it was back out into the darkness, biting down on your lip to hold back the moans of pain threatening to spill out.  
So it wasn't fun. I can't even name one good time we had. There were no camp fires like the stories say, no trophies of Cardassian neck bones adorning our ships and there certainly weren't the orgies or pillaging the Maquis are allegedly infamous for.  
Too often, we limped from raid to raid, just thankful we had survived to fight another day. We were all too often aware that the Federation was looking for us and that there were bounty hunters eager to snatch up even one of us.  
But somehow, we were the lucky ones. We managed to evade capture, escape death a million times, and in the process, we learned to trust each other.  
You want to know about us, so I'll tell you. Suder had a poker face, never could tell what cards he held. Gerron sings in the shower, Ayala can name all thirty-seven constellations in the Olmina system. Someday, when we have more time and we're talking about this over a cup of coffee, I'll tell you how Kurt Bendera saved my life in a bar-fight. He saved B'Elanna's life too, but that's another story also. He was a good man, didn't deserve to die the way he did, but I don't expect you to understand that.  
John Carlson lost his family to a Cardassian raid while Starfleet hung back, unwilling to protect his wife and children. Chell talks too much but he can keep a secret. Ken Dalby, well, he has a temper, but there is intensity about him, a sense of purpose I find compelling.  
There are so many others to name - Mariah Henley, Fiona Jackson, Devon Jarvis, Vin Janus, Kas Klym, Catherine McKenzie, Kevin O'Donnell, Tabor Dyns - good people, all of them. I will even go as far as to say that Michael Jonas and Seska had their moments; at the risk of sounding nostalgic, when those two were with me, as Maquis, they did not give me any reason to doubt them.  
We knew what we were doing when we joined the Maquis. Don't think that the fight was in our heads for a single second, because it wasn't like that. You think we liked fighting for the sake of fighting? You think we really wanted to turn our backs on the Federation? But what no one understands is that we had no choice; you gave us no choice. The situation was very much like being a child and seeing your parents walking away, leaving you behind, never to return.  
We fought because the Federation made a deal with Cardassia that we could not stomach. And when Cardassia moved in on us, robbing us of our homes, killing our families, raping our lands - if that happened to you, what would you do? Would you sit there placidly, knowing that the Federation - your government - would not protect you? Would you willingly pack up the lives you painstakingly carved out of the rough terrain of the border colonies and just go without even a single note of protest?  
You know how we felt about our options, how we felt that fighting to protect our way of life was the only thing left to us, and soon the fight became the only reason for us to wake up each morning and take a deep breath. Another day alive would mean another day to fight, to actually take a stand for something we believed in.  
It might be presumptuous of me, but I ask you - all of you - wouldn't you have done the same?  
  
****  
  
My joints are tight, muscles ache. In the back of my mind, I remember... the voices.   
And sometimes, if I concentrate, I hear the echoes of a scream reverberating in my mind.  
There are no features to differentiate the faces, only the pitch of their voices, the intensity of their pleadings.  
And I, who pride myself on the strength of my compassion, did not hear them.  
There were some that were quiet, compliant, who understood that assimilation was inevitable, that it was less painful if they submitted. There were others who struggled, who fought until they were beaten and then we - the Borg - descended en masse upon that soft body and pierced it.  
The part of me that still remembered Janeway, Kathryn, Captain, Voyager - her lips would move in silent mantra as her fingers did the bidding of the Collective.  
"Forgive me," she would whisper as yet another drone added to the perfection of the Borg.  
And somewhere, observing it all, the Borg Queen laughed.  
I put my hand to my cheek, feel soft flesh and not Borg plated armor. I avoid mirrors, avoid them with desperation born of fear, aware that the shadow of the Borg Queen hovers over my shoulder, her lips sneering into a perpetual taunt.  
I hold my hands out in front of me, testing each finger, marveling at how easily they move without the silver tubules streaking from mid-wrist to the tips of my fingers.  
I asked Seven about them once, asked her if she noticed the constant presence of appendages on her body. She cocked her head to the side, her blue eyes very wide in her pale face, and she examined her own hand. She stroked the length of the tubules gently and then shook her head.  
"No," she said. "I do not notice them. They are a part of me."  
What was unspoken in our conversation was her fervent belief that I would accept what we had done and experienced without question and it would become part of me also.  
I did not ask her about the screaming because I already knew the answer to that question; those nameless and faceless individuals have become a part of me, occupying every waking moment with the question of "how could you?" hovering on their lips.  
I no longer have physical reminders of my time aboard the Borg cube; I only have the nightmares which hover in the darkest corners of my mind, threatening to spill out at any moment, threatening to rob me of any sanity I might still possess.  
And then, what bothers me most, what comes up the most as I toss and turn in the night is a single question: Was I wrong?   
Tom seems to think I was. His expression is a constant mixture of sullen insolence and disrespect. We talked only that once, when he accused me of single-minded stubbornness and it hurt, coming from Tom. Sometimes, I try to talk to him, maybe explain myself a bit, but instead his face turns inscrutable and I know he's not listening.  
He has already made up his mind about what happened, about me. It may be too late to salvage my relationship with him, but it's not too late for the Maquis.  
I owe them - Chakotay and B'Elanna - that much.  
  
****  
  
B'Elanna and I go way back. She won't tell you about how we met, but I will. The year was 2367, the setting - a freighter stocked with supplies for a Federation world. The Cardassians had it in their sights, and we, hungry for whatever we could get our hands for - anything to make a dent in this guerrilla war against the Federation - were there also.  
You would be amazed - no, shocked - at how many people actually despised the Federation and didn't believe that it was a benevolent organization serving the good of the many. Even now, I still can't reconcile myself to the image of the Federation as a protector.  
There were more Starfleet officers sympathetic to the cause of the Maquis than you would believe and it was because of them, we were able to board the freighter.  
Casualties were high - mostly on the Cardassian side. I lost two people - Greg Kendall and Lisa Johnson. Somewhere in all of that smoke and blood, I caught sight of B'Elanna Torres.  
My first vision of her was of a half-mad Klingon, fighting with every ounce of energy she had left. Her phaser aim wasn't great, but she had taken down a Cardassian or two.  
"Stay where you are!" I exclaimed.  
"Don't worry!" she shot back. "I'm not going anywhere."  
There was a Gul - Tancret, I believe his name was - peeking back and forth around a corner and together, B'Elanna and I concentrated our fire on him. After about ninety seconds, the Gul fell heavily to the floor, his face flat against the wall, his arms outstretched.  
I felt nothing as I stepped over his prone body. Not hate, not anger, not sorrow, not guilt. Nothing. Just nothing.  
"You're coming with me!" I yelled to B'Elanna. "The ship, it's going to blow!"  
"I don't even know who you are!"  
"Does it matter?" I yelled back as sparks flew above my head. B'Elanna considered a moment and then followed me.  
In the mayhem that issued back on my ship, the Liberty, I didn't get a chance to talk to B'Elanna much. Hell, I didn't even know her name.  
I did notice, though, that she could fix anything. She flung herself into the repairs, often working late into the night when others were sleeping. I would watch from afar, shake my head, and then turn to other more pressing matters.  
We hid in a nebula for repairs and one night, too exhausted to sleep, I wandered around the ship and found B'Elanna, sweating over some isolinear chips. Her short, curly brown hair was falling in her eyes, sweat and dust coating her cheeks, nose and chin.  
For the first time, I took a good look at her. She was a thin slip of a girl then and not very tall. Her eyes were big and brown - almost too big for her face. And just above her lip, there was a small mole that self-consciously, she would try to cover up with a bit of make-up.  
I didn't mean to bump into her, but in retrospect, that little bit of violence was what I needed to break the ice.  
"Hey!" B'Elanna exclaimed. "Watch where you're going!"  
"Sorry," I said. "I didn't see you."  
"You should be more careful."  
I tried to make small talk. And of course, there I learned the first rule about B'Elanna Torres: she doesn't small talk. In fact, she responded to most of my conversation with low grunts. At some point, she hurled her tool across the room, smashing it with admirable precision against a bulkhead; it crashed with a satisfying thunk.  
"If only," she muttered as she got up to retrieve her now-dented tool.  
"If only what?" I asked.  
"Nothing."  
"No, really."  
"It wasn't a very nice thought."  
"There aren't very many nice thoughts here," I reassured here.  
"I was thinking about Starfleet," she said. "Thinking about how nice it would be to smash some of those pristine windows at the Academy."  
"Don't like Starfleet much, do you?" I asked jokingly.  
"No," she said. "All of their rules. They want you to be a certain way, want you to be fit their mold. It's... stifling."  
"Sounds like Starfleet," I nodded. She tilted her head towards me, resting it on her hand. She looked, for a moment, strangely soft.  
"You know about... Starfleet?"   
"I lived Starfleet."  
"And now?"  
"Now?" I laughed. "Look at me."  
She gazed up and down my frame, taking in the brownish-hued garments hanging off of my body; in the seven months since I had resigned from Starfleet, I had lost quite a bit of weight. Fighting Cardassians has a curious way of taking the edge of hunger away and increasing adrenaline so you are able to scale large cliffs in a matter of seconds.  
"You left Starfleet," she said flatly. "You escaped."  
"In a manner of speaking."  
"You were there for a long time?"  
"Yeah. Almost thirteen years."  
"That's a long time. I couldn't do that," she said.  
"I think you could," I said. "It's not such a bad thing."  
"So now you attack supply freighters?" she asked. "That's an improvement?"  
"I have my reasons," I countered. "What are yours?"  
"I don't have any," B'Elanna responded. "Or maybe, I'm just looking for a fight."  
"Sounds like you have a story to tell."  
"Depends what you want to hear."  
"How about your name?"  
We faced off like that and finally, B'Elanna extended her hand.  
"B'Elanna Torres."  
"Chakotay."  
"Just Chakotay?"  
"Just Chakotay."  
She was leaning against the wall and slowly, she slid down until she was sitting. I, so as not to tower over her, sat down also.  
"So? Why are you here?" I asked.  
"There's nowhere else to go," she said. "You helped the Cardassians destroy my freighter, remember?"  
"No, I mean really," I said. "Why were you on that freighter?"  
"I had nowhere to go," she repeated.  
"I find that hard to believe."  
"Believe it," she laughed harshly. "I was at Starfleet Academy until, oh, about three months ago."  
"Did you graduate?"  
"No," she shrugged. "I just left. It wasn't for me."  
"Why?"  
"Too many rules."  
"You've said that."  
"I fight," a smile slipped onto her face. "The counselors say I have violent tendencies. I break things too."  
"Yeah?"  
"But I can fix them better than anyone else," B'Elanna grinned with obvious pride.   
"I can see that," I gestured at her work. "You've done a good job here."  
"Thanks," she narrowed her eyes. "That's how I got out here, you know. Built my own ship and then when the warp coils gave out, I hitched a ride on that freighter."  
"Built your own ship, huh? Impressive."  
B'Elanna shrugged, "I wanted to see if I could."  
"You obviously did."  
"I'll do better next time."  
I leaned forward and picked up one of the tools she had been working with it and ran my hands over it. B'Elanna leaned forward too and tipped her head sideways towards me.  
"Chakotay. What kind of name is that?" she asked.  
"Native American," I said.   
"Ah," she said. "Is that why you have a tattoo?"  
"Do you always ask so many questions?"  
"Only when I'm interested in someone," B'Elanna rubbed her tongue over her lips. "You're Native American then?"  
"Yeah."  
"Klingon," she touched the ridges on her forehead. "But I guess you could see that. Half-Klingon, really. I mean, yeah, not really Klingon."  
"It's getting late," I said. "Should be getting to bed. You ready?"  
B'Elanna's eyes grew cold, "I'm not that kind of girl, Mr. Chakotay."  
"And I'm not that kind of guy," I answered shortly. "I was just pointing out that you could use a little rest."  
"Are you saying I don't know when to rest?"  
"I'm saying that I need to rest," I flashed her a smile. "Are you coming or not?"  
I got to my feet and held my hand out to her; she took it and in a surprisingly strong moved, pulled herself up.  
"You never told me your reasons," she said.  
"It doesn't matter," I answered.  
"It does. If it means you gave up a career in Starfleet to hobble around the galaxy in this rattletrap, you ought to have a damn good reason."  
The intensity in her eyes held my attention and without thinking, I touched her jaw slightly; she did not flinch.  
"You must have heard of the treaty," I said. "The one between Cardassia and the Federation."  
"I've heard a bit," she said. "The Federation has ceded some planets to Cardassia."  
"My home world is one of those. Dorvan IV."  
"Yeah?" the tone of her voice was surprisingly casual, but her eyes betrayed the concern.  
"They killed my father."  
B'Elanna's eyes grew wider. Her hand reached out, clutched my forearm.  
"No." she whispered. "Who?"  
"Does it matter?"  
"It does to you."  
"Cardassians or the Federation, take your pick. The Cardassians did it, but the Federation stood by and let it happen. I... I couldn't stay in Starfleet. It didn't feel right, knowing that we had all the resources to protect my father and but did nothing."  
B'Elanna's grip on my arm tightened.  
"You're right," she said. "You have a reason."  
I brushed away the smudge of dust on her cheek. I contemplated for a minute; I did not know anything about B'Elanna Torres, but I found her... fascinating; the quick spark of temper in her eye, the keen reflexes, but most of all, her audacity. Loved that. Loved that about her immediately.  
"Do you want a reason?" I asked in a very low voice. "We could use an engineer on board. The ship's not much, but it gets the job done."  
With characteristic B'Elanna aloofness, she replied, "Well, I don't have anywhere else to go right now. I suppose I could hang around for a while."  
But the Maquis, you see, inspires a passion in people - even they didn't have a passion before they joined; that's what happened with B'Elanna. And I could see it, in the way she caressed those engines, coaxing every last bit of energy out of them. She cared what happened to us, cared about the cause and I suspect, she may have even learned to care a little for herself.  
  
****  
  
Alone. That's how I began my days in the Delta Quadrant and evidently, that's how I shall mark my return to the Alpha Quadrant.  
No, that's not exactly right; when I left, I had Mark and Molly. Mark's married, happily I hope, and my dog, well, I hope someone somewhere is taking care of her the way I would.  
My quarters, always immaculate - heaven forbid that a captain even dare to have a pillow out of place because you never know who is going to drop by - is especially repulsive to me as I stand in the center of muted grays and tired burgundies.   
I lightly run my hand over table tops and shelves as I pass by, reveling in the sounds of PADDs and other odds and ends crashing to the floor.   
I shed my jacket on the back of the sofa, knowing that no one will be by to share a Merlot tonight. On my way to the bathroom, I accidentally catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror; fascinated, I pause.  
I see a pasty white face staring back at me, hazel eyes tinged slightly with green, and the hair, God, that hair - dry, brittle and thin, growing haphazardly in all directions. It is almost as if a chestnut-colored haystack is growing on top of my head, courtesy of the Borg.  
The Doctor assures me that my hair will eventually revert to its shiny, bouncy, soft state and at the time, it did not matter because I saw Chakotay looking at me.  
That first implant-free night, Chakotay ran his hands through my hair, his breath warm on my cheek, and his body curving against mine. He still found me beautiful and even with the remnants of my implants, he did not shrink away from me the way Tom did to B'Elanna at first and for that, I was grateful.  
I shed the rest of my clothes and step into the shower. It takes a second or two to adjust the pulsing water to my specifications. Yes, I've forgotten how hot I like the water - almost scalding, something Mark would always complain about when we showered together - and how hard I like the pressure against my skin.  
I stumble out, my muscles bruised but relaxed, and I lay on the sofa, wrapped only in the ivory towel.  
Next to the sofa, there is the PADD, the one telling me that the Federation intends to detain Chakotay, Torres and the remaining Maquis members for questioning and perhaps, remand them for trial. I had received it in the days prior to our return to the Alpha Quadrant and after the initial read-through, I had tossed it aside, hoping that the message was a mistake, sent by accident, soon to be refuted once we arrived.  
Once again, I was wrong.  
I pick up the PADD and scroll through the list of charges levied against Chakotay's cell; the list, unfortunately, is endless: assault and battery, breaking and entering, burglary, civil disorder, larceny, robbery, manslaughter, terrorism, arson, conspiracy, destruction of property and finally, treason.  
In the seven years we served together, I only asked Chakotay once about his life in the Maquis.  
"What did you do?" I asked. We were enjoying dinner in my quarters in a thankfully peaceful interlude, sometime right after we discovered the Ares Four.   
"Whatever it took," he responded. "Do we need to talk about this, Kathryn?"  
"I would like to."  
"I'd rather talk about what we found on the Ares," Chakotay said.   
"You did enjoy that, didn't you?" I asked.  
"Very much so. I guess there is still a bit of Starfleet left in me. Some of that so-called penchant for exploration?"  
"We'll make a Starfleet officer of you yet."  
"I thought I was already there."  
I twirled some of my linguini around my fork and took a deep breath.  
"Chakotay, I don't know when we're getting home or what's going to happen."  
"But you're concerned."  
"Yes. That's why I wanted to know."  
"We were terrorists, Kathryn. Whatever falls under that definition."  
"No, really. Specifics."  
"I think what I said before sums it up nicely," he said evenly. "You wouldn't want to know. What we - B'Elanna, Henley, Chell, Gerron, the others - what we did, it may offend Starfleet sensibilities."  
"Try me."  
"There was one raid," Chakotay leaned back in his seat. "There was a remote Cardassian outpost, a supply base actually. Nerok Tor, actually. Medical supplies, I think. In fact, I think many of the supplies came from the Federation itself and that made us furious. We couldn't get basic medical supplies ourselves and here our government was giving the supplies to the enemy."  
"So you led the raid?"  
Chakotay nodded, "Yes. We leveled the outpost, burned it to the ground."  
"Casualties?"  
"Yes."  
"Cardassian?"  
"Yes."  
"How many?"  
"Estimates are anywhere from one hundred to one hundred and fifty. We didn't know for sure. Our sources weren't always as precise as we would have liked."  
We sat there in silence, neither of us making eye contact. I took a deep breath.  
"You're right," I said. "I don't want to know."  
I look back at the list of charges and wonder how many Nerok Tors Chakotay has to his credit.  
In addition, Chakotay has violated at least two of the Federation's General Orders.  
I could argue that number two which reads, "No Starfleet personnel shall unnecessarily use force, either collectively or individually, against members of the United Federation of Planets, their duly authorized representatives, spokespersons, or designated leaders, or members of any sentient nonmember race, for any reason whatsoever," does not apply since Chakotay had left Starfleet prior to his Maquis days.   
But then, there is General Order Nineteen: "Except in times of declared emergency, Starfleet personnel may under no circumstances convey personnel or material between planets or  
planetary systems when there is reason to believe that said personnel or material may be used to conduct aggression. This order applies to independent worlds within the Federation as well as to Federation members."  
Even if we ignore the fact - the defense - that Chakotay's Maquis cell was primarily composed of former Starfleet officers, all of them were - are - Federation citizens.   
The precision of words damn Chakotay, Torres and the others.   
The Federation's memory is long, casting shadows across the ground and putting everyone in its path into darkness. Old feelings die-hard and I doubt there is one top Starfleet official in the Federation with any sympathy towards the Maquis or even with the ability to understand why they did what they did.  
And forgive me, even after all this time, I don't know that if I understand.  
  
****  
  
You always remember first encounters. I remember my first glimpse of Kathryn Janeway when I beamed aboard Voyager after the encounter with the Caretaker. She was standing on her Bridge, arms akimbo, and her rather youngish face still unmarked by the trials of command yet to come. My very first thought as I materialized on the Bridge was, "Damn, that's an ugly hairstyle."  
Yet as I advanced towards her, I absorbed every feature of her face; those greenish eyes beneath perfectly manicured eyebrows and the delicate upsweep of her cheekbones. Kathryn Janeway, helmet hair and all, was a beautiful woman, and I, being a man, could not help but notice this all-important detail.  
That's not to say that I had romantic thoughts at that very moment nor did I ever speculate on what the future of my relationship with this woman would be. And I never thought we would be lovers; that thought never occurred to me.  
Instead, I was rather irritated by our - and I mean the Maquis here - position. We were decidedly at a disadvantage and most of the time, the Maquis did its best work when the odds were stacked against us. Not this time; Kathryn Janeway commanded a state of the art vessel and I, well, I had nothing.  
I hated her for that. Hated her for that unconscious superiority which would occasionally slip into her voice when she spoke about Voyager and the people who manned this Starfleet ship.  
And her inexperience. She had been captain of Voyager for barely a few weeks and already she had stranded the Maquis and her Starfleet officers in the Delta Quadrant and the most optimistic of analysis came back with a traveling time of seventy-five years back to the Alpha Quadrant.  
I suppose I'm the last person to talk about the principle of the matter and following one's heart when it comes to morality; I left Starfleet when the Cardassians attacked my home world and I did many things that in retrospect, I find objectionable and morally repulsive.  
And so I did not trust Kathryn Janeway. I did not trust her motives and I did not believe that she could truly command Voyager.  
Not even when she called me into her Ready Room and poured me a cup of coffee - a beverage I could barely tolerate at the time.  
"We need to talk about your presence on my ship," she said. And even then, her voice was very territorial, very possessive. But then again, if our positions were reversed, I imagine I would feel just as threatened.  
I tried to feign nonchalance, leaning back in my chair - which incidentally was about a centimeter or two lower than hers - and trying to keep my features completely even and expressionless.  
"We have a problem," she went on. "We are in the middle of the Delta Quadrant; it could take us years to get home."  
"That's what Torres is telling me," I said easily. "Seventy-five to be exact."  
"I'm sorry about your ship."  
"She was a good ship. We went through a lot together."  
"I've read your logs. and Mr. Paris, he has mentioned one or two escapades."  
"I imagine he told you a lot. Anything to get off easy. That's his way."  
"I know there is some bad blood between you and Mr. Paris, but that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. Right now Voyager is our best chance of getting home," Janeway - and she wasn't Kathryn yet - said earnestly. "Mr. Chakotay, I'd like you to remain on board this ship."  
It was a gracious offer; after all, she could have proposed to drop me, B'Elanna and the others on some planet here in the Delta Quadrant while Voyager continued on its way home. I sure Starfleet would have loved that - one more Maquis ship destroyed, its crew unable to further affect Starfleet's uneasy truce with Cardassia.  
So Janeway's invitation of a ride back to the Delta Quadrant was indeed welcome and in a way, somewhat unexpected.   
"Thank you," I said. "And my crew?"  
"Also welcome," she said. "Of course, I would expect you all to function as part of this crew - Voyager's crew."  
"Of course. We wouldn't dream of sitting around."  
"And that brings me to another matter," she said. "This is a Starfleet vessel. We may be in the Delta Quadrant, far from Starfleet's influence, but I intend to run this ship in accordance to its charter. Is that clear?"   
"Perfectly clear," I answered.  
"Good," Janeway said. "And one more thing."  
I looked at her in silence.  
"I, I need a first officer," she said in a low voice. "I need Tuvok at tactical and I think that, you, you have the experience that I need in my first officer."  
Our eyes met and Janeway was the first to blink.  
"You have the Starfleet training," she said. "And you can help ease the transition between Maquis and Starfleet, not that I think there will be tension."  
I wanted to laugh at this last sentence. This type of remark was typical of Janeway in the early days of our journey - naive and optimistic. Believe me, a few run-ins with the Kazon, Hirogen and the Borg completely obliterated this particular trait of hers.  
"Will you do it?" Janeway pressed her palm down on the desk, focusing on the long, slender fingers fanning out.   
"It's been a long time since I wore a Starfleet uniform," I mused. "Never thought I would again."  
Janeway offered me that patient, mothering smile of hers. I would see that smile often as years went by and I grew to despise it - knowing that Kathryn Janeway thought she knew what was best for us without even asking us first.  
"Now I need something from you," I said, surprising myself with my own boldness. "How do I know we won't be prosecuted the minute we get back into the Alpha Quadrant?"  
Hunter looked at prey with frank honesty.  
"You don't," she said. "I take my responsibilities very seriously, Chakotay. I assure you, I doubt that Voyager's initial mission will change once we get home."  
I leaned back in my chair, rapping my fingers against the table. The cards were on the table and surprisingly, it did not bother me.  
"I would be honored to serve as your first officer," I told her.  
  
****  
  
Hours pass slowly when you are waiting. I don't even know what I am waiting for, maybe a message from the Federation that this investigation of theirs is all a mistake and that Chakotay will be back at my side and B'Elanna will be back in Engineering. And then we will get the apologies and accolades I think - I know - we deserve.   
Of course, that would be in a perfect world and unfortunately, I live here - wherever "here" might be at the moment.  
The door chimes and I sit up, suddenly aware that I am still only wrapped in the towel.  
"Who is it?" I call.  
"Seven of Nine."  
I sigh, "Give me a second."  
My uniform is still lying on the floor of the bathroom and I pull on my gray T-shirt and black pants.   
"Come."  
Seven enters, looking distinctly uncomfortable.  
"I am bothering you," she says.  
"No," I say. "Not at all.  
She is still looking around, questions written all over her aquiline features.   
"Sit, please," I indicate one of the chairs at the table. "Hungry? I haven't eaten yet."  
"I do not require nutrition at this time."  
"Then keep me company," I say. I walk up to the replicator and order tomato-basil soup and a hard-roll. "I could use the conversation."  
"Lieutenant Paris mentioned that you had not been seen for some time. He was concerned."  
Tom? Concerned? Now that was a surprise. But of course, he sent Seven to look on me; he wouldn't come himself and that said everything to me. He cared but could not bear to be near me.  
"I just needed some time alone," I answer, bringing the food back to the table. Seven sniffs the air suspiciously and apparently, finding my food satisfactory, she settles back into her chair. "And there is nothing really left to do until Federation authorities allow us to leave the ship."  
"Is there a reason why we are not allowed to leave?"  
"Standard procedure whenever a ship returns from a deep space mission," I say easily.   
"We have been docked for nearly twenty hours," Seven points out. I am amazed she doesn't point out to the minute how long we have been here. "The delay seems unusual to me."  
I sigh, "There are some questions about. Commander Chakotay and Lieutenant Torres."  
"Their Maquis affiliation?"  
"Yes."  
"Why does it matter?"  
Sometimes I think Seven of Nine is thirty going on five. Her utter lack of guile when it comes to human nature will be her downfall and it makes me uneasy about her future once we leave this ship.  
I won't lie; I look on Seven as the child I do not have and like any mother, I delight in her accomplishments and grind my teeth at her obstinacy.   
"If you commit a crime, punishment of one kind or another must follow," I answer carefully.  
"Do you believe Commander Chakotay and Lieutenant Torres have committed a crime?"  
"Seven years ago, I did, yes."  
"You do not any longer?"  
"No. They are a part of this crew, a part of this family," I say with as much feeling I can muster. I put my spoon down. "What they did in the past, that is not relevant now."  
"Starfleet believes it's relevant."  
"Only because Starfleet is as unforgiving as it is rigid."   
"What will happen to me?"  
I fold my hands on the table, lean forward slowly, and make eye contact with Seven. I want her to know that I am sincere in whatever I say next.  
"I do not know," I say truthfully. "They are interested in you, that I know, and they would like to know about you and your life as a Borg drone."  
Seven cocks her head to the side, "I do not know what it left for them to know."  
"You know Starfleet. They want to document everything," I laugh.  
"Even me."  
I sigh, "Yes, even you."  
Seven meets my gaze straight on.  
"You have encouraged me to explore my humanity," she says. "You have pushed me to become an individual."  
"I have tried," I admitted. "Are you... pleased with your progress?"  
"I am," she said quietly. "But I also have... feelings."  
I look at Seven in surprise; many times, she would dismiss others, disregard their emotions as irrelevant.   
"You're right," I answer. I reach across the table to touch the back of her hand, run my fingers over the metal tubules spanning the length of her hand from wrist to fingernail. "You aren't a science project. You never have been. I am sorry if I ever caused you to feel that way."  
"I am not angry anymore," Seven says. "I was very angry when you would not return me to the Collective."  
I laughed since I could now at the memory.   
"Yes, I remember," I say. "You were like a teenager stretching the boundaries of what was allowed."  
"I do not understand," she says.  
"It's all right," I say. "Are you sure you're not hungry?"  
Seven tips her head slightly.  
"Your food... it looks appetizing."  
"Let me get you some," I tell her. I replicate the same dinner - tomato soup and a hard roll plus a bit of salad - for her. She eyes the food with trepidation as I place it in front of her.  
"Interesting," she says in much the same way Tuvok would.   
"It's good. Comfort food."  
"Comfort food?"  
"When you don't feel well," I explain. "Sometimes you crave certain foods to make you feel better."  
She spoons some of the soup into her mouth; her face contorts and then she smiles.  
"It is good," she says.  
"Good," I lean back in my seat. "Seven, I don't know what's going to happen. I'm as much in the dark as you are, but I promise - I will do everything I can to make sure you're treated, as you should be - as an individual."  
Seven nods, "Thank you."  
And I hope, unlike other promises I've made, this is one I will keep.  
  
****  
  
I find it difficult to talk about Seska. I think of her, remember those almond-shaped eyes and that deep red-brown hair slicked back from her smooth brow, and an itch develops at the back of my throat. My chest tightens and I have to inhale deeply.  
It amazes me, after all this time, how Seska still affects me. I know that people think that I am hopelessly naïve, a poor judge of character, and yes, I did not see through Seska. Maybe I wanted to take her - and everyone else - at face value and believe that every word from their lips was the goddamned truth and nothing less.  
I met Seska on one of our sorties into Cardassian territories. She had originally been on the Malina, a Bajoran freighter hijacked for Maquis use. The ship had sustained heavy damage and with the warp core in imminent danger of blowing, we had beamed the crew of the Malina to my ship.  
Seska had caught my eye immediately. She was taller than most women onboard and she certainly towered over B'Elanna Torres. Seska also carried herself with an assuredness that I found refreshing and I loved the way her eyes sparked alternately with fiery temper and soft gentleness.  
Seska always knew what she wanted; knew her needs and wants immediately and I fell into her "wants" category. I'd like to say I succumbed in a moment of incredible weakness, but it wasn't like that.  
We were hidden in the caves of Alonius Prime, one of the few border colonies sympathetic to the Maquis. We had stopped off for supplies and to make much needed repairs.  
"Everything is a disaster," B'Elanna declared flatly as we sat around a table, shoulders bent in to keep from shivering in the damp atmosphere of the caves. I already said this, but I want to reiterate that life as Maquis terrorists - as you call us - was never glamorous. Often we were cold, hungry, wondering if today would be our day to die. Certainly, we all walked around with a death wish; we each possessed a fatalistic attitude, thinking, "Yes, today is it. Today is the day Starfleet is going to aim that phaser cannon at us and that will be the end."  
And of course, we wondered what the end would be like. Would it be quick and painless? Seska always advocated the self-destruction sequence, saying it was much better than the death by suffocation caused when you were sucked out of an airlock.  
B'Elanna, on the other hand, preferred hand-to-hand ritualistic combat; there was no way our half-Klingon firebrand would ever commit suicide - she would die on her feet, with a phaser in one hand and a mek'leth in the other.  
"A disaster?" Seska met B'Elanna's eyes straight on. "Could you possibly provide more information?"  
And speaking of death, I think B'Elanna wanted Seska dead. I don't know what it was, but B'Elanna never liked Seska, not even for a half a moment. Maybe it just means that B'Elanna is a better judge of character than I am, but I prefer to think that it was more that they mirrored each other almost perfectly in terms of temperament.   
"We've lost all flux capacitors," B'Elanna said coolly, directing her remarks at Tuvok and me, instead of responding to Seska.   
Yes, don't look at me like that. Tuvok was there, and at the time, he was one of my more trusted colleagues; I figured that Vulcans didn't have the ability to practice deception. Again, I should have known better.  
"Big deal, we can get more," Seska said.  
"And the shield harmonics matrix is out of alignment," B'Elanna continued. I could see the heat rising in B'Elanna's cheeks as she pointedly tried to ignore Seska.  
"Can we fix it?" I asked.  
"It will take time," she said.  
"We don't have time!" Seska snapped.  
"Well, I'm telling you what's wrong," B'Elanna shot back. "You fly the damn ship without any flux capacitors and it won't even get off the ground. You don't think I'm working as fast as I can? If I say it's going to take time, it's going to take time."  
"I think you're stalling," Seska said evenly.  
"Seska," I said.  
"B'Elanna has no reason to stall," Tuvok injected.  
"Listen to the Vulcan, Seska. I'm telling you, the ship has problems, serious problems. I'm amazed we even survived this last raid. As it was, we limped our way here. We're lucky there wasn't a Cardassian patrol in the vicinity."  
"It would have been a good day to die," Seska said without a tinge of irony in her voice. She got up, nearly knocking the chair over in abrupt movement. "I would rather die than spend another day in these damp caves! Prophets, the chill goes right to the bone. We'll all die down here from the cold."  
"Seska," I said in an attempt to appease the angry Bajoran.  
"Are you afraid?" B'Elanna's eyes were flashing. "It's good we found out now, isn't it, Seska? If you're afraid of what we're doing, then maybe you aren't in the right place. Maybe this isn't your battle."  
"I'm Bajoran. This is my battle."  
B'Elanna got up from her hair and rounded the side of the table, nearly colliding with Tuvok who had gotten up from his chair in an attempt to stop her.  
"I'm watching you," B'Elanna breathed. "If I even see one thing that makes me stop and think twice, you better watch your back."  
"B'Elanna," I said.  
"I don't need to listen to this," Seska snarled at me. Her amber-tinged eyes snapped fire at me, her lips curling in anticipation of a fight, and her fists were clenched at her side. I won't lie; I found Seska fascinating at that moment.  
We stood there for a mere second and then Seska thundered off in one direction and B'Elanna in the other, no doubt in search of her flux capacitors.  
"I should check on. Seska," I said to Tuvok awkwardly.  
"And I," Tuvok looked around. "I will attempt to find some kind of heat generator."  
"Good idea," I said. And I'll be honest; in the entire time Tuvok was with us, the heat generator was the best suggestion he ever came up with.  
I found Seska huddled in corner in the passageway furthest from where we had been meeting. Her teeth chattered as I came down the corridor, the little lantern flickering in my hand.  
"I brought you a blanket," I said.  
"Thank you."  
"I'm sorry about B'Elanna. Her temper sometimes gets the best of her."  
"She is rude, Chakotay."  
I crouched down beside Seska, putting the lantern to the side, and then draping the blanket around her shoulders.   
"She means well."  
"This isn't her fight," Seska said, but some of the bitterness in her tone had already started to evaporate. "What is she doing here anyway?"  
"What are you doing here?"  
"That's different. I'm Bajoran."  
I smiled, "We all have our reasons. Some, like yours, are as plain as the nose on your face. Others are a little more opaque."  
"Are you always this...?" she fumbled a bit by her side, arranging the blanket more securely around her. "Are you always so cheerful?"  
"No," I said. "But that wasn't what you were going to ask, was it?"  
"No," she said. "What you said, it was silly, but sweet."  
"Thank you."  
She said, "Won't you sit down?"  
I brushed the pebbles slightly aside with my fingers. "Sure."  
The dampness seeped through my thin pants as I leaned back against the clammy stone walls. I shivered.  
"Share my blanket?" she asked.  
"Thanks."  
"Are we ever going to get out of here?"  
"I plan on it."  
Seska glanced at me sideways, her almond-shaped eyes narrowing into tiny slits.  
"B'Elanna doesn't like me," she said.  
"You don't like her."  
"Do you like her?"  
I sighed, "Seska, this is not a popularity contest."  
She inched closer to me, her shoulder brushing mine.  
"Do you always avoid answering questions?" Seska queried.  
I had to laugh, "When it is political to do so, I try my best."  
"I thought so," and without asking, she rested her head on my shoulder. "I can't believe that only six hours ago, we were going down in flames. I thought, `this is it, I'm going to die.'"  
"I thought the same. In fact, I wake up every morning and think that."  
"You think we'll be fighting this fight for the rest of our lives?"  
"I hope not."  
"Sometimes I think this is going to last forever."  
"That's optimistic."  
"You think the Cardassians are going to cede an inch?" Seska asked. "Or what about the Federation? How many Federation vessels have you attacked recently? The Federation has a long memory."  
"I prefer to not think about that," I said. "I like to think about why I'm doing what I'm doing."  
Her hair was brushing my cheek and I shifted position awkwardly so I could wrap my arm around her. She was a stocky woman, big-boned and muscular - a rather unusual physique for Bajorans who tend to be more delicately built and slender. But at the time, she fit into the curve of my arm perfectly and I didn't think much more of her unusual stature.  
What I admired most about Seska was her utter brazenness and her delicious sense of impropriety. She knew what she wanted and did not care what conventions had to be broken in order for her to get what she wanted.  
Seska inched her hand up my thigh, and when I looked at her, her eyes were closed and her head tilted slightly back, her lips curled up in a half-crescent.   
"Seska," I whispered. "What are you doing?"  
"Shh," she said.  
Slowly, she made her way to my waistband and I jerked when her warm fingers touched my cool skin. She was breathing calmly, but I could feel my chest tighten as her hand brushed over the hairs on my thigh. I knew I should protest; instead, I closed my eyes.  
Later Seska stood up, looking pleased with herself. I could almost sense her thoughts, the unspoken words: "Could B'Elanna do that for you?"  
She looked down at me, extended her hand and said coolly, "The others are probably wondering where we are."  
"You're right," I stumbled to my feet, marveling at the weakness in my muscles.   
We didn't talk about what happened then and we never really did ever; instead, we grabbed our furtive moments anywhere we could from the dark corners of an abandoned supply depot or in the damp leaves covering the ground of a rain forest.  
And not once did I suspect. She was that good.  
I do mean that - in more ways than one.  
  
****  
  
They are all in the holodeck. I know this because I wanted to call a staff meeting for no other reason than to alleviate the anxiety that is eating away at me as the minutes continue to tick away. But when I queried for their locations, the computer in its dismally unsympathetic voice informed me that Lieutenant Paris and Ensign Kim were on the holodeck and evidently, had been there for several hours.  
I wanted to talk to someone, anyone, and Tuvok has been gone for the last three hours to monitor the proceedings against Torres and Chakotay.   
And so Harry and Tom, it is.  
I stand outside of the holodeck, wondering nervously if I should enter, and then, squaring my shoulders, I go in.  
The scene is a garage and smells vaguely of gasoline. I see Tom's legs beneath the shining red car; Harry is sitting on a rather lopsided stool, watching with an expression of disinterest of his face. He immediately gets to his feet when he notices my presence.  
"Captain!" he exclaims.   
"At ease," I say. "I apologize for interrupting."  
Tom pushes out from beneath the car; he is wearing that awful gray jumpsuit, his gray turtleneck peeking up from beneath the collar. His eyes, like everything else about him recently, are hard and unfriendly.  
"Any word?" he asks, sitting up. "Can we get off this ship? Honestly, Captain, I would have preferred to stay in the Delta Quadrant if I had known our homecoming would be like this."  
"Tuvok is on the station now," I say. "When he comes back, we'll know what is going on."  
"Anything on Chakotay and B'Elanna?" Tom persists.  
"Nothing," I frown. The silence from Starfleet on the fate of my two officers is loud and grating.   
"Anything from my father? He hasn't responded to any of my messages," Tom says. His face crumples for a second and then rearranges itself into an expression of nonchalance - very similar to the face he wore during his first few years on Voyager, when he was trying so hard to pretend that the animosity directed towards him by the crew did not hurt him.  
I knew better though. Tom Paris, consummate ladies' man, joker and gambler, has feelings and until B'Elanna Torres loved him, he never showed them.  
I reach forward to touch his forearm, "No, Tom, there has been no word from your father, but that could also be because of the communications blockade."  
"Captain, isn't that odd?" Harry asks from behind me. "It's almost as if we are the criminals."  
"It's all part of protocol," I answer.  
"That might work for Seven," Tom says. "But you can't fool us. What's going on?"  
I sigh, "I won't keep anything from you, Tom, but I honestly don't know. Tuvok is the only one who is allowed to attend the sessions. When he returns, I will certainly ask him."  
"Do you think they are investigating you?" Tom asks. His voice is nonchalant, but I pick up the faint tremor underlying his tone.   
"It's a good possibility," I admit.  
"If they are investigating you, what will happen to the rest of us?" Harry asks. He looks frightened; I don't blame him. Seven years ago, he was just starting on a brand new career, one that should have been full of promise. Who knows where Harry could have been if I hadn't lost us all in the Delta Quadrant?  
"Nothing, I expect," I say easily, and I am as sure of this answer as I was about us getting home.  
"They want to split us up," Tom says. "All of us."  
"That's not true."  
"I expect I'll be going back to New Zealand," Tom goes on. "The weather there is pretty nice; it won't be so bad."  
"Don't be ridiculous," I say sharply. "Our previous arrangement stands. I have been assured of that. You have your freedom."  
"And B'Elanna?" Tom demands. "What about her?"  
"Tom," Harry says. "You heard the Captain; Starfleet hasn't been exactly forthcoming about its intentions."  
"I promise you, Tom, I'll do everything I can for B'Elanna."  
Tom scoots out completely from beneath the car and gets to his feet; his expression is hard.   
"It may not be enough," he says.  
"Tom," Harry says.  
"What the hell," Tom says. He angrily stuffs tools into the metal case by his feet.   
"What's going on?" I ask, bewildered by my helm officer's behavior.  
"Don't you find it a bit odd that we are all still here on Voyager?" he asks, those bright eyes flashing. "Isn't it odd that no one except Tuvok can see B'Elanna and Chakotay? Not even you are allowed off of this ship. That doesn't make sense, Captain. There's something going on and I want an explanation."  
"I don't have one."  
"I didn't think so, no offense, Captain."  
We make an odd group there in the holodeck and I regret my intrusion; no doubt Harry was counseling his friend. Tom's face has gone red, Harry is suddenly interested in a spot of grease on the floor and I simply feel uncomfortable.  
"Tuvok to Janeway."  
I take a deep breath, thankful for the interruption.   
"Janeway here," I say, aware of Tom's curiosity and Harry's continued disinterest.  
"I need to see you. Right away."  
"On my way. Janeway out."  
I turn to look at the two men before I exit.  
"Tom, I will get you the answers you need," I tell him softly. He merely shrugs his shoulders.  
  
****  
  
I should have known, even given my close friendship with B'Elanna, that I would be the last to know about her relationship with Tom Paris. Maybe it was because I closed my eyes, refused to see the signs of an infatuation morphing rapidly into something else. I convinced myself that they were too different, or was it too alike? Whatever it was, I did not see it, did not know.  
After Voyager's crew served as guinea pigs for the nameless aliens - yes, I know, but they didn't exactly introduce themselves - there was no one on the ship who didn't know about Tom and B'Elanna. And I think, B'Elanna felt a bit of guilt for not saying something to me first and that's why she showed up at my door, a bit drained from a double-shift, but still radiant in a way only B'Elanna can be.  
"Come in," I said. I was lounging on the sofa in loose pants and shirt - comfortable clothes, perfect for unwinding.  
"Hi," she said shyly from the door. I noted the bottle of wine in her hand.   
"Come in," I repeated, straightening. "What's going on?"  
"I had this lying around," she said. "A rare bottle from Dorvan IV. How does that sound to you?"  
"Terrific," I said. "Let me get the glasses."  
The vineyards on my home world, Dorvan IV, had never been known for producing much by the way of wine. In fact, Dorvan's wines were decidedly mediocre, most of the grapes sour and because of the constant Cardassian attacks, never allowed to ferment in oak barrels long enough. But still, I appreciated B'Elanna's gesture, for what it meant; Dorvan's vineyards were long gone, burned to a crisp.  
"It's a red," she said. "Merlot."  
I wrinkled my nose.  
"Yeah, I know," B'Elanna said. "But let's give it a shot, okay?"  
I got the wineglasses out of a cupboard and put them on the table; B'Elanna poured the wine.  
"It's been a while," she said. "Since we talked, you and me."  
"Yeah," I said. "It's been... busy."  
And I wanted to kick myself for my stupid answer, for not putting more thought into my words and for not saying what I really wanted to.  
"How are you feeling?" B'Elanna asked conversationally.  
"Okay," I said. "Still a little wobbly in the muscles."  
"I know the feeling," B'Elanna said. "I felt slightly... out of control?"  
"That's one way of putting it," I raised my glass. "Cheers."  
"Cheers."  
I leaned back in my chair and sipped the wine.  
"Not bad," I said. "Not quite as dry as I feared, but still bitter."  
B'Elanna swallowed hard. "I'm glad you like it."  
She put her glass down, "Chakotay, I didn't come here to drink wine with you."  
"I know," I said. "You just needed an excuse, though you never needed one before."  
"You're one of my best friends," she said sincerely. Actual warmth seeped into her voice and for a fleeting moment, I wondered if this was Tom Paris' work. "I should have told you about Tom."  
"It would have been nice to hear it from you and not from Tuvok."  
"Yeah," B'Elanna's eyes drifted to a spot on the wall directly above my head. "I guess I wasn't sure, didn't know what everyone would think."  
"Does it matter?"  
"I don't want people to think I've lost my head."  
"You have though, haven't you?"  
B'Elanna's lips parted slightly and then she smiled.  
"Yes," she said. "I didn't think... didn't imagine that it would be like this. I never imagined that Tom would... care back."  
I pushed my empty wineglass away and leaned back in my chair.  
"You know what I think about Tom Paris," I said. "He's irresponsible, dangerous, never serious about anything. B'Elanna, I'm worried about you. He won't take care of you the way," and I took a deep breath here. I wanted to finish the sentence, say, "won't take care of you the you deserve to be taken care of," but I couldn't. I looked at B'Elanna, noted that her eyes had a gleam to them that I had never seen before; a glitter of an emotion that I never thought I would see in her eyes.  
"I know the risks," B'Elanna said earnestly. "I know what Tom is like and it doesn't matter. My eyes are open and I'm not under any illusions. Maybe it will work, maybe it won't. All I know is that when I'm with him, the rest of the world blurs and I see only him. I could be making a mistake but it's my mistake to make, Chakotay."  
"I don't want you to get hurt, B'Elanna. Tom Paris has that reputation. He," I couldn't finish. Visions of Tom's past conquests flitted through my head and I hated to think of B'Elanna as just another notch on Tom's belt. "I just want you to be careful."  
"Believe me," B'Elanna said. "I pushed him away as much as I could. He got to me, Chakotay, and I don't know how. On day, he was this annoying itch and then suddenly, he was there, under my skin. I couldn't stop thinking about him, even looked forward to spending time with him. And I'm sorry. There were times when I wanted to tell him something even before I wanted to tell you. I think that's when I knew. And yeah, I know what Tom's reputation is like and I'm not going to delude myself and think that I'm the one who is going to change him."  
Our eyes met for an uncomfortable second; I was the one who looked away because I knew that I would not see in B'Elanna's eyes what was reflected in mine.  
"As long as you know," I said.  
"I know," she whispered, heavy inflection laid on the last word. She laid her hand on top of mine. "I know, Chakotay."  
We sat there in awkward silence for a little while and then B'Elanna got up, nearly knocking over her chair in the process.  
"I've got to go," she said. "Um, Tom."  
"Yeah," I said.   
"Good night."  
"Good night."  
B'Elanna vanished into the corridors of Voyager, the doors hissing shut behind her. I looked at the half-empty wine bottle; maybe finishing it would put me in a deep, dreamless sleep, safe   
from the nightmarish image of B'Elanna lying in Tom Paris' arms and his hands on her skin.   
  
****  
  
"What is it?" I meet Tuvok en route to my quarters. He looks perturbed - or as perturbed as a Vulcan possibly can. I wonder if he is thinking about his wife, wondering about his children; or maybe he is single-minded, thinking only of the task ahead. "How are Chakotay and Torres?"  
"They are being interrogated," he says in that flat voice. I sigh; it was not the answer I wanted. I wanted to know how they were; were they well-fed? Were they being well taken care of? Were they sleeping at night? How were they feeling?  
And these were answers that Tuvok would be unable to provide me.  
"What are they being questioned on?" I ask, deciding to sidestep the issue of Chakotay and Torres' well-being for right now.  
"Everything," Tuvok says. "From the moment they arrived on Voyager until the day we returned home."  
"Anything in specific?"  
"No, I have yet to discern a pattern. They were interested in Seska."  
"Of course. Who wouldn't it be? She caused us no end of problems," I say. I remember Seska, as I last saw her - her long red hair flowing down her back, her Cardassian ridges prominent above her eyes, and in her arms, cradling the child she claimed was Chakotay's. "What do you think the Federation intends to do with the Maquis?"  
"I do not believe the outcome will be positive. The Federation, and by association Starfleet, has not forgotten the crimes of the Maquis," Tuvok says, his voice evenly modulated. He indicates the door to my quarters. I enter the pass code and we enter. Tuvok sits stiffly in the armchair, but I let decorum go for the time being and sprawl on the sofa.  
"There is a certain faction intent on prosecuting them to the full extant of the law," my friend continues.  
"After all they have done for Voyager? I couldn't have asked for a better first officer than Commander Chakotay."  
"They have yet to ask about their contributions to Voyager," Tuvok says flatly.  
"What about B'Elanna? Without her, we would have never survived. Voyager wouldn't have lasted a minute in the Delta Quadrant without her expertise."  
"Lieutenant Torres has yet to speak. They do not seem interested in questioning her."  
"But they have her and Chakotay both? Why? Has something happened to Starfleet while we were gone?"  
Tuvok shrugs.  
"I do not know," he answers with maddening equanimity. "But there is something else. They will allow you to attend the questioning tomorrow."  
My mood brightens immediately.   
"What?"  
"Tomorrow," Tuvok nods. "They said you can be present."  
And I know, from the tone of Tuvok's voice, that it cannot be good. My stomach churns and I feel the beginnings of a headache threatening behind my temples and at the nape of my neck.   
"I'll be there," I say hollowly. "Tell them... tell them I will be there."  
Tuvok pauses; there is something more and he finds it difficult to begin. And somehow, I know where he is going with this question.  
"They are asking about your relationship with Commander Chakotay," Tuvok says quietly.  
"That's none of their business."  
"Nonetheless, the question was asked."  
"Damn them!" I lean forward on the table, dropping my head. "Is nothing sacred?"  
"Apparently not."  
"Good lord," I said. "I don't believe this. If they want to put me on trial, then they should. There is no reason for this... farce. No reason to detain B'Elanna and Chakotay if it's me they want to know about."  
"I have yet to discern their true motivations," Tuvok says. "I am unable to extrapolate their intentions where Voyager and the Maquis are concerned. I confess, I find the whole proceedings to be illogical."  
"I imagine they are on a fishing expedition," I say. "They are simply looking for something, anything. Why, I cannot say."  
"I do not know either," says Tuvok. "But it makes me uneasy."  
I straighten up, feeling the strength return to my backbone. I nod at Tuvok's remark, grateful that he feels the same trepidation that I do.  
"I know the feeling," I tell him.  
The two of us head down the corridor towards the messhall; I could really use a cup of coffee.   
The messhall is full when we get there; bored crew members are chatting listlessly or playing variations of chess, derata and other strategy games.  
Neelix greets us when we enter.  
"Captain, Mr. Vulcan," he says.  
"Coffee, hot," I tell him, not bothering to specify anything else; there is a dull pounding in my head, one that only coffee can relieve.  
"Coming right up, Captain."  
Tuvok and I find an empty table in the furthest corner of the messhall. Through the windows, we can see a bit of the starbase and the workers tethered to the hull.  
"It will take years to repair the damage from the war," I muse.   
"The war did leave both sides badly decimated," Tuvok agrees.  
Neelix brings the coffee over.  
"Did you want something, Commander?" Neelix asks.  
"I am fine."  
"It's quiet in here, Neelix," I say.  
"I have tried my best," he says. "The crew is concerned about their Maquis friends."  
"That's surprising," I say. "Considering the tensions prior to our arrival in the Alpha Quadrant."  
"Uncertainty does that, Captain," Neelix sits down next to Tuvok. "The Maquis withdrew into themselves because they were unsure of their reception in the Alpha Quadrant and what that would mean for their Starfleet comrades. They were unsure whether their friendships would survive what was to come."  
"So rather than facing that, they chose to cut the ties themselves?" I ask.  
"Yes," Neelix nods. "That is my impression. It would help, Captain, if you spoke to the crew and reassure them that the Maquis will be all right."  
I look down at my coffee mug.   
"Captain?" Neelix asks. "They will be all right, won't they?"  
"I hope so," I tell him. "But I know they will be grateful for the support of their friends. That much I'm sure of."  
"But you don't know for sure that everything is going to be all right?"  
I look at Tuvok whose lips have drawn into a thin line. I've seen that expression many times during our long friendship.  
"For what it's worth, Neelix," I reach across the table to cover Neelix's hand with mine. "I'm glad you decided to stay with us. I think we could all use a morale officer."  
  
****  
  
The first time we made love, there were candles. It was right after Kashyk and the music playing in the background was not Mahler.   
"Grieg?" I asked after a couple seconds of straining. Kathryn nodded.  
"Yes," she said. "Were you expecting something else?"  
She was challenging me, wanting me to bring up Kashyk, but I shook my head.  
"This particular composition," I said. "I just... never mind."  
Dinner was not unusual for us; we ate together quite frequently, usually to discuss private personnel matters that could not be brought up in public.  
This night, she had dimmed the lights, lit the candles, and the table was set with silverware and china I had never seen before.  
"Looks good," I said awkwardly. "Smells good too."  
Kathryn smiled, indicating the chair opposite her.  
"Have a seat," she said.   
"What is for dinner?" I asked.  
"Hmm... we start with a Caesar salad," she said, spooning some Romaine lettuce into my place. "And then follows a tomato basil soup. The main entrée is a creamy pesto linguini and then, chocolate mousse to finish off."  
"Sounds wonderful."  
"Should be," Kathryn ladled soup in my bowl. "I replicated them using Chef Lanzetti's recipes."  
"Chef Lanzetti," I smiled. "I remember. Right outside of the Academy grounds. Best Italian food outside of Italy."  
"That's right," Kathryn said, seating herself in front of me. She was wearing her gray T-shirt and black uniform pants, but a tiny glint of silver chain peeked from beneath the circular neck of the shirt. "And the wine... a Merlot from 2369."  
"A good year," I said approvingly.  
"You know your wines," she said, her voice dropping low and throaty. She poured the liquid into the crystal wineglasses by our plates. "This does seem like an indulgence, doesn't it?"  
"A bit, but everyone is allowed once in a while."  
"Including a captain?"  
"Especially a captain," I smiled.  
"So," she leaned back in her chair, her right shoulder slightly forward. "Do you think I was wrong about Kashyk?"  
"Does it matter?"  
"I suppose not," she rubbed a finger along the edge of her glass. "But I wonder... what if? Would it have been so terrible?"  
"Depends what you're talking about," I answered lightly.  
She leaned forward, her hands on her thighs, her chin thrust earnestly forward.  
"I suppose you're right," and then she laughed a little schoolgirl's laugh.   
I finished my salad and put the bowl aside and then started in on the soup.  
"This is excellent, Kathryn," I said sincerely.  
"Thank you," she smiled. And then, a shadow crossed her face. "It had been so long, Chakotay."  
"I know the feeling."  
"You at least had... Seska," she said this last name with a bit of disgust.  
"Not really," I answered. "Not since coming aboard Voyager."  
Janeway held up a hand, "Really, Chakotay, your personal affairs are none of my business."  
I put my fork down, almost ready to argue with her. After all, she was the one who had brought Seska up, not me.  
"I suppose if you never suspected Seska, then it wasn't so bad that I didn't suspect Kashyk of duplicity... at first," she said pensively. "I did figure it out, Chakotay, and still, I played him. Played him as he played me."  
I twirled linguini around my fork.  
"Fresh pesto," I said. "Now that's quite the achievement."  
"Aeroponics," she beamed. "Fresh basil. I had a few small plants before... before we ended up here."  
She said the word "here" with the same disgust she reserved for Seska.   
In the candlelight, Kathryn Janeway's hair took on a golden-red tint and I loved the way the light reflected off of the gentle waves just above her ear.  
Of course, these were sentiments I would never share with Kath - Janeway - her.   
We continued eating in silence and I only lifted my head once to comment on the music.  
"Not Grieg anymore," I said. "Chopin."  
"Very good," she said as harsh piano chords sounded in the background. "Do you know which one?"  
"Hmm. `Raindrops,' perhaps?"  
"I never knew you were a connoisseur of romantic music," Janeway drained her glass of the last of the wine. She tipped her head back, revealing a long expanse of white neck. I could see the longitudinal lengths of ligaments running from just below her jawbone and disappearing into the small hollow at the junction of her clavicle bone.   
"I had a friend... at the Academy," I paused. "Elise."  
"Elise?" Janeway blinked a couple times, her long lashes fluttering girlishly. Damn if she wasn't flirting.  
"Elise," I confirmed. "She played the piano. A virtuoso. Her father, however, had other plans for her. I think she eventually became a science officer on the Valiant."  
"You don't know for sure?"  
"No," I answered. "We didn't see each other for very long."  
"Just long enough to pick up some Grieg and Chopin?"  
"Among other things," I smiled.  
Janeway got up, pushing her chair back so hastily that it nearly tipped over.   
"Computer, play Janeway selection theta nine," she said harshly. Startled by her abrupt mood swing, I got up from my chair.  
The music filling the captain's quarters very different than the previous selections. This was a vocal piece, a smooth tenor filling the air.  
"What is it?" I asked.  
"A favorite of the Doctor's," Janeway said. "It's called `Someone to Watch Over Me.'"  
"Sounds... interesting."  
"You don't care for it?"  
"It takes some getting used to."  
"I think the singer is Bajoran."  
"Now that's something different."  
We were now only inches away from each other, and without thinking, I reached up and tipped her chin up slightly so that we were looking directly into each other's eyes.  
Janeway - no, Kathryn - slipped her arms around my neck, pressing her cheek against the scratchy wool of my uniform. My own arms slipped to her back, and then down lower. as far as a first officer could possibly dare.  
I don't know the exact second her lips first met mine and I can't even really recall the sensation of skin against skin; I wish it were more memorable, but it wasn't. It was almost like a flutter of wind, barely detectable, and I would wonder if the kiss - as I thought of it - had even happened.  
Somehow, we tumbled onto her bed in a tangle of legs and arms, panting heavily. How we undressed, I don't know, but before long, there was nothing between her skin and mine and my lips were against that throat I had not so long ago admired.  
I think at one point I might have said her name, might have said Kathryn, but again - like everything else - that too might be a figment of what I wanted.  
Later, we lay side by side, neither of us touching. She had pulled up the sheets, covering her breasts, and her hands were folded neatly on her stomach.   
I didn't know what to say. I mean, what do you say? Starfleet doesn't cover this in its classes, doesn't tell you what to do in the minutes after... the minutes after you made love to a superior officer.  
What was I supposed to say?   
"Red alert, Captain? Loading phaser banks. Ready to fire on your mark."  
But then, as Seven would say, the comparison was flawed. Or was it?  
I waited for her to speak for, wanted her to speak first.   
Kathryn turned her head slightly, her eyes lolling all the way to the left.  
"I will see you at breakfast then?" she asked. "At 0700 hours?"  
I cleared my throat, "That sounds good."  
I got up, got dressed, and I was keenly aware of her eyes on me, sweeping the length of my body.  
I left and knew that the evening had been no accident. She had planned it from beginning to end and it didn't matter who it had been that night. Kashyk or me, or even Tom or Harry, you name him, it didn't matter that night to Kathryn Janeway.  
I knew it from the music.  
Grieg's "Erotic."  
I never stood a chance.  
  
****  
  
The interior of Starbase 87 is not any more inviting than the outside; in fact, access is restricted in general, and if I look out of the corners of my eyes, I can see the gaps in heavy metal plating that separates us from the cold vacuum of space.  
They allowed Tom to accompany me, in addition to Tuvok; for this small favor, I am grateful, though I figure the Admiral - Tom's father - must have had something to do with it.  
Tom is visibly agitated, occasionally running his hand through his blond hair; the tresses stand awkwardly on end right about his forehead, giving him that boyish quality that we women find so damn charming.  
Tom and I walk shoulder to shoulder with Tuvok a step or two in front of us. It is quiet here, very few personnel anywhere to be seen.   
Not for the first time, I wonder at the parsimony of our welcome. Tom glances over at me and I pause, waiting for him to speak.  
"The war," he says. "We won."  
Tuvok's eyebrows arch up and then fall back down. His lips tremble slightly as if he is going to speak, but instead he sucks in air, hollowing out his cheeks, and then lets it out in soft sigh.  
"That is what the history books will say," I answer carefully. "The Federation won the Dominion War when Cardassia broke the alliance and joined us."  
"You know," Tom looks around at the deserted storefronts and the debris piled against the walls. "When my children ask about the Dominion War, I'm not going to be able to tell them anything. Won't be able to share with them anything that is not already in a history book. They'll ask, and I'll have to answer that I spent the whole damn war in the Delta Quadrant."  
There it is, that silent accusation again. My shoulders stiffen; I do not know how to answer Tom's statement and I don't think he is necessarily looking for anything from me anymore. Truth be told, I don't think Tom needs me anymore. He has validated himself in his father's eyes and he has B'Elanna to comfort and coddle him. What he does with his life now is completely up to him; he no longer needs to be rescued or rehabilitated.  
"Your experience in the Delta Quadrant was unique," Tuvok says without irony. Again I look at my old friend, wonder what exactly is going through that analytical mind of his. We have talked, once or twice, about our experiences on the Borg cube, but Tuvok never dwells on the emotional aspect of our assimilation; he merely points out that our motives were justified, our mission solid.  
Tom's face softens and for a moment, I am reminded of a cocky young man telling me brashly, "Hell, I'd be the best pilot you could have."   
Impulsively, I squeeze Tom's arm.  
"Our experiences, our studies," I say. "It will add so much to the Federation's database of knowledge. Perhaps some of our..." I pause as I notice a Starfleet delegation heading towards us.  
Until this moment, I have been grateful for the lack of obvious Starfleet security. But as the cliché says, all good things eventually must come to an end as I make quick note of the phasers attached securely to hips.  
Admiral Rodney McArthur leads the group; his lips drawn into a straight line, his eyes unsmiling.  
"Captain," he says crisply. "I am sorry I was not there to meet you when you came aboard."  
"It's good to see you again, Admiral."  
"It's been a long time, Kathryn," his voice softens as he says my name. I take his proffered hand and add a bit of a squeeze, hoping he remembers our camaraderie for the one year we served together under Owen Paris. "Everyone is very eager to hear of your adventures in the Delta Quadrant. You truly fulfilled Starfleet's mission: going where no one has gone before."  
I nod, biting my lip so that the words - "what have you done with Chakotay and B'Elanna" - won't slip out prematurely.  
"And this must be Tom Paris," McArthur says. "Your father is very proud of you, boy."  
Tom draws himself up straight, visibly offended.   
"I would like to talk to my father," Tom says. "Is he here?"  
"He is on his way," McArthur answers. "He was, um, delayed on his way out from San Francisco. Ongoing negotiations with various parties, reconstruction efforts, you know, the usual fallout after a war."  
"Looks like this station took a beating," I observe.  
"Yes, we were in the thick of it," McArthur says. "Those were some rough days, but it makes you appreciate the peace that follows much more. Come, let's go. We don't have much time."  
We follow McArthur through the corridors, the security delegation following discreetly behind us. As we go deeper within the heart of the station, I notice that the walls are cleaner, the damage less obvious. Sterility permeates the air, the signs that the oxygen recyclers are working at full capacity.   
"Admiral," I hurry to catch up. "Where are we going?"  
"Commander Tuvok mentioned that you wanted to attend the trial of the Maquis," McArthur says coolly.   
"Trial?" I stop. "I thought you were just investigating them, asking some questions."  
"Kathryn, you should know better."  
"They served on my crew, ably I might add, for seven years! I couldn't have asked for a better group of people. I can't believe you - the Federation, Starfleet - would put them on trial after everything we - they - have been through."  
"Believe me, Kathryn, we considered all of what you are saying," McArthur says in a soothing voice. "But we can't ignore that a crime - many crimes - were committed against Starfleet personnel and Federation protectorates. They are terrorists."  
"Were," I correct him icily. "Were terrorists. The war is over, Admiral, and they served their time. Believe me, the Delta Quadrant was no picnic. We suffered plenty when we were there."  
"We're aware of that. Chakotay has been quite forthcoming with his information. He's a nice fellow, Kathryn. You did well to pick him to serve as your first officer, though frankly, I must question your judgment in picking a Maquis soldier before looking at a member of your Starfleet-loyal crew."  
Tom's cheeks are red now and out of the corner of my eye, I see Tuvok place a restraining hand on Tom's shoulder.  
"The death count was too high, Kathryn," McArthur says again in that irritatingly condescending voice. "We looked at the numbers and we looked at the cost estimates. Again, someone had to be held responsible-"  
"So you're going after my people?" I ask flatly.  
"Your people?" McArthur laughs slightly. "Seven years ago, Kathryn, you went after them. Your mission was to retrieve the Maquis ship and bring back Tuvok. I would say you were successful, wouldn't you?"  
With that, he turns and continues walking. My cheeks are flaming, my heart thumping so fast that I feel it will leap right out of my ribcage.   
"What does he mean?" I whirl on Tuvok, much to the irritation of the guards standing directly behind.   
"Captain," Tuvok's eyes hold an obvious warning for me.   
"They've already made their decision," Tom says flatly. "They probably didn't even listen to a word the Commander or B'Elanna had to say; they had already made up their mind and they kept us locked up on Voyager until it was too late for us to do anything at all."  
"Tuvok," I say. My Vulcan friend, so incapable of lying and so unwilling to show emotion, closes his eyes for a brief second before nodding his head.   
  
****  
  
How did I get along with the others? That's an interesting question. At the beginning, it was Janeway and Tuvok versus B'Elanna and me. Harry and Tom, they were usually together. What a pair those two were - one utterly clueless and the other hardened beyond his years.  
I envied the trust Janeway had - has - in Tuvok. There were times when she confided in him and I wanted her to talk to me instead; after all, I was her first officer.   
Even after we became lovers, there were times when we clashed and she would go to Tuvok; he could make the same recommendation as me but she would give him more weight. The fact that she sometimes relied on Tuvok more than me made me furious.  
I was always aware of the differences in the way Janeway viewed me, but it came to a forefront when we made that alliance with the Kazon. Call us crazy, but we were out of our minds at that time, concentrating on survival. The Prime Directive is all well and good, but we Maquis, we didn't choose to die for the Prime Directive; that's Starfleet's imperative. So that's why I pushed Ka- Captain Janeway - to make the alliance and in typical Janeway fashion, she didn't listen to me.   
My reasoning was very simple; we had spent several weeks being pounded by the Kazon mercilessly. Three people - including my friend Bendera - had died in the attacks and the Doctor and Kes were already working around the clock monitoring those who weren't lucky enough to die the first time the Kazon attacked us. And I told Janeway then that this was like being in the Maquis, that I had been a good Starfleet officer, but it was time to try something new. And I hinted that maybe it was time to take a Maquis-approach to the situation.  
I might as well have been talking to a brick wall.  
The Captain's mind was already made up and dammit, she was going to stick to Starfleet protocol, even if it meant we were going to perish out in the Delta Quadrant.  
I didn't realize how important the Prime Directive was to Kathryn Janeway until Bendera's memorial service. After we dissipated, I witnessed Hogan and Jonas talking to Janeway and while I did not hear Hogan's question, I did hear the Captain's response. She said, very clearly, "I'll destroy this ship before I let any of its technology fall into Kazon hands."   
And then, as she was walking out of the room, she turned to me and said, "How's that for the Maquis way, Commander?"  
I tell you, honestly, that I hated her in that moment. Truly I did because much as I admired her principles and her loyalty to the Starfleet establishment, I couldn't see how a guiding directive could possibly help us in a quadrant where death seemed to lurk in nebulas and star systems.  
And I took that moment to try and make her understand. After almost two years in the Delta Quadrant, how could she not understand the very real fear paralyzing the crew? How could she not understand the repugnance of following the orders of an establishment that was seventy-five thousand light years away?   
She asked me if I agreed with the Hogan's suggestion about giving technology to the Kazon and of course I said no. And I honestly believed that while Hogan's thoughts reflected those of the crew, his suggestion was not the best way for Voyager.  
And that's when I plowed forward and told her exactly what I was thinking, what her crew was thinking.  
"But you have to realize that the Starfleet protocols you've locked onto are ideals many of the Maquis resent the hell out of. Your principles aren't necessarily theirs. Can we find something in between we can all find satisfactory?" I asked.  
The coldness in her eyes scared me and I had a vision of being immediately chucked out of the nearest airlock; well, suffocating in space was surely quicker and less painful than knowing that we were a sitting target for the Kazon.  
"You have a suggestion? Make it," she snapped at me.  
"Make an alliance," I said. And then I got her, reminding her of all of the promises she had made to us in the past, the promises to get us home. You can't send a ship of bodies back to the Alpha Quadrant. And I asked her, straight-out, "Are you really making your decisions with the best interests of the crew at heart?"  
And she just stared at me for a moment and I could tell she was trying to counter my words with something more powerful and pull out some obscure Starfleet rule that would allow her to make such cavalier decisions.  
"I'm going to talk to Tuvok," she said flatly.   
"Fine," I shot back,.  
It was then I realized how little she trusted me and how much more she depended on Tuvok. I don't know what happened in their conversation, only that they had one, but when she came out, she was amiable to the alliance, but only because Tuvok had talked her into it.  
I think it was Harry who made the comment about trying to find Seska and the whole idea of seeing her and remembering her - it was repulsive to me, but B'Elanna and Tom thought it was a good idea and apparently it sounded like Janeway thought so also.  
She even said as much to me, mockingly.  
"You can't have it halfway, Commander. If you play with the pigs, you can't complain about getting dirty," she said.  
The remark rankled at me and sometimes, when we would argue about we needed to be done in a situation, I would remember this, our aborted alliance with the Kazon and how much work it took to get us there.  
And so, yes, the path to Janeway's confidence, it took a while. It wasn't easy and we clashed many times, more times than I can possibly count. And underlying every single on of those arguments was her overwhelming distaste for anything Maquis, anything which did not fall into a Starfleet protocol book.  
I do have to say, in her defense, she did what she thought was right for the crew. Her heart was in the right place even if her head was not.  
  
****  
  
It has only been a couple days, but it feels like forever since I last saw Chakotay and Torres. In the harsh light of the interrogation room, they both look wane, their skin slightly tinged with yellow. Both of them are dressed in civilian clothes, circa 2371 - the year we vanished into the Delta Quadrant.  
"I want to talk to them," I hiss to McArthur. He holds up one finger.  
"You have a minute," and from the tone of his voice, I know he means sixty seconds exactly. I cross the room, hoping desperately that I can bridge the distance between us. I only look back once when I notice B'Elanna's eyes widened and then her expression crumple; security guards hold Tom back.  
"Are you okay?" I whisper to Chakotay, not willing to give McArthur and the others the pleasure of hearing my conversation with the man I still consider my first officer and best friend.   
"Tired," he says in an equally low voice. He nudges B'Elanna and she reluctantly turns to look at me.  
"Are they treating you well?" I ask.  
"Standard Starfleet brig," Chakotay says. "Bad food, uncomfortable bed, noisy. Feels like the Academy in a way."  
"Only no homework," B'Elanna says in monotone, her eyes still fixed on Tom. "I want to talk to him, Captain. Can you...?"  
"I'll do what I can."  
B'Elanna grabs at my sleeve, "They want to know everything, Captain."  
"You can be honest," I assure them both.  
Chakotay tips his head slightly, "Kathryn, no."  
"I don't regret any of it," I tell him. "You don't need to worry about me. Do what you have to do to get out of here."  
"Compromise our principles. Is that what you're saying?"   
"If you have to, yes."   
"You're advocating lying," Chakotay points out. Our eyes meet and I want to, in front of all of these people, reach out and touch his cheek. I want to trail my fingers down the sharp angle of his chin, down his neck, and trace a line of kisses along the lines of his clavicle bone. I settle instead for a pat on his shoulder and a swift clutch at B'Elanna's hand.   
"Captain," McArthur's voice is sharp and crisp behind me. I sigh, feeling unbelievably tired by these games. No doubt Chakotay and B'Elanna feel the same.  
"We will begin the questioning in one minute," McArthur says quietly. "Now, we know about the Equinox from your logs, but I understand that there was some... dissension between you and your first officer."  
"He was only doing his job," I lash out. "He was only doing what he thought was best for me, for Voyager."  
"Yet you confined him to quarters. Did you not trust him, Kathryn?"  
"No, it wasn't that, not at all," I answer. "He was..."  
"He was what, Kathryn?"  
I stare back into those steely blue eyes, searching for the man who had taught me, albeit badly, to play dom jott. There is no trace of him to be seen in the stern lines crossing his brow. It is obvious that the war years treated Rodney McArthur badly, but I do not understand his animosity towards the Maquis.   
"He was... right," I say forcefully. "I was afraid of that. Afraid that everyone would see what a terrible mistake I was making and the he was right."  
McArthur points out a steel-backed chair, sans cushions, very similar to the ones Chakotay and Torres are occupying.  
"You have always had a soft spot for the downtrodden, Kathryn," he says. "Your kindness is also your greatest fallacy; you are unable to see the truth even if it masquerades in the guise of true evil."  
I want to speak more, but I see Tuvok, his index finger against his lip, and I notice that Tom is no longer in the room.  
"Where is Lieutenant Paris?" I cannot help but ask.  
"He has been removed," McArthur says. "I do not know what kind of ship you ran, Kathryn, but I assure you, disrespect for a senior officer is not to be tolerated at any level."  
I look back at Chakotay, see him run a comforting hand over B'Elanna's back.  
"He loves her," I tell McArthur.  
McArthur gazes at me, a sudden mixture of pity and contempt swirling in those blue eyes.   
"That is a pity," McArthur says quietly.  
  
****  
  
It's odd to talk about the Equinox; most of the time, the Captain and I would sidestep what happened during that time, mostly because it was too painful to discuss for so many reasons. I really think, in some ways, it was a turning point for Kathryn and I.  
For the most of our journey, I agreed with her. I clashed with her on the Kazon alliance because I thought she was wrong, applying her morality in a place where it did not belong; Kathryn is nothing if not highly principled.  
This... this was different. This was personal. She was going after Ransom with a vengeance that frightened me greatly; my feelings for Kathryn aside, I felt she was putting Voyager in a position of greater danger - sacrificing us to salve her own aching sense of right and wrong.  
Most of what happened, you have in her logs. I tried to keep mine brief, but she was amazingly honest in hers. What happened with Noah Lessing, about that risk she took, almost killing the man, that really did happen.  
I remember, standing there, pleading with her to acknowledge the man's loyalty to Ransom and she still bludgeoned on, seemingly unaware of the fissure threatening to suck us all out into space.  
When we talked about what happened later, in calmly modulated voices overlying the fury we both were feeling, my heart was pounding so hard, I swear, I thought it was going to jump right out of my ribcage. And it honestly took all of my courage to speak with her that afternoon. Can you believe it? I led raids on Cardassian outposts without blinking and yet I found it difficult to talk to Kathryn Janeway that day without feeling that lump growing thicker in my throat.  
"You almost killed that man today," I began.  
"It was a calculated risk and I took it."   
"It was a bad call," and I stood there, unable to believe even my own audacity.   
"I'll note your objection in my log."  
"I don't give a damn about your log! This isn't about rules and regulations. It's about right and wrong. And I'm warning you - I won't let you cross that line again."  
I don't know what I was thinking, but I was her first officer and I had a job to do. I wondered, in the silence hanging between us, did I go too far? Or wasn't it the job of every first officer to challenge the Captain if she did something he felt was out-of-line?  
But I knew when she opened her mouth, that I had made the wrong decision, had contradicted her one too many times.  
"Then you leave me no choice. You are hereby relieved of duty until further notice."  
The coldness in her voice startled me. Was this the same woman who had been lying next to me only three nights previously? I saw nothing of the Kathryn I knew in the woman standing in front of me. All those qualities I admired in her - her stubborn streak, her integrity, her staunch principles, and her fidelity - had manifested themselves into something. insane.  
So I tried one more time, hoping to appeal to some part of her that still remembered what it was like to care.  
"What's happened to you, Kathryn?"   
And then she truly wounded me.  
"I was about to ask you the same question," Janeway responded.  
When you are relieved of duty, it's too painful and humiliating to face the rest of the crew; so, in general, you spend it quarters, drinking coffee and thinking.   
I'll be honest - Kathryn frightened me. Her desire, her drive, to be bring Ransom to justice reminded me of Javier from the classic Terran novel "Les Miserables."  
The significance hit me as I lay in bed, eyes focused on the ceiling. He was a Starfleet captain, crippled by his circumstances, and forced by desperation into forsaking all that Starfleet held dear. And I wondered if in Ransom, Janeway saw a portent of the future, a devastating picture of what Voyager could become if we didn't get out of here soon.  
And even with that reasoning, I still could not forgive her.  
Later Tuvok told me that Janeway had offered up the Equinox to the Ankari if they would stop their attacks on Voyager. And despite his admonishments, despite his warnings that they would kill Ransom and his crew, Janeway proceeded with the deal, her callousness matched only by her ruthlessness.  
And I knew it then, knew both Tuvok and I were outclassed, outmatched.  
You see, even though you consider me a criminal, I do have a sense of decency, a sense of what is right and wrong. I'm not saying that Kathryn doesn't; I truly believe that somewhere she thought she was doing the right thing - carrying out her duties as Starfleet dictated.   
But I didn't like what happened to her and neither did Tuvok.  
We had much to repair on Voyager; half of our systems were destroyed or malfunctioning and there were many injuries. But all of that was physical - we could repair injuries easily with a pass of the dermal regenerator and we could replicate more components to fix Voyager.   
But I wasn't sure of Kathryn, wasn't sure that I could follow her blindly and put my trust in her as I once had.  
I wondered if we would ever put things back together and I'll be honest, there were times when I saw her and remembered Lessing and what happened in the cargo bay. And then I would imagine her coldly offering up the Equinox crew in return for our lives.  
The same fury would bubble up inside of me, though I bit back my words, hoping my anger would not spill out inappropriately.  
And one night, when she stopped by my quarters to pick up a duty roster PADD she did ask me about it.  
We stood there in my quarters, and she wouldn't look at me. Instead, she focused directly on the PADD, nodding.  
"Looks good," she said. "Efficient."  
"As soon as Ayala and Vorik are out of sickbay, I'll add them," I said. "It's a little thin in some areas right now."  
"You got all the shifts covered to the minimum regulation," Janeway commented.  
"I tried my best," I said. "I've got B'Elanna working back to back shifts, getting this ship back together after what the Ankari did to it."  
She took a deep breath and looked at me, "I am sorry."  
Her cheeks flushed pink and she raised her eyes to meet mine. I admire her courage for saying those three words; apologies do not come easy to Kathryn Janeway.  
"That came out of nowhere," I told her.  
"I've been thinking about it for days now," she said. "Thinking about what happened and I've been listening to my logs. It is. unforgivable. I should have listened to you, to Tuvok. Instead, instead, I was, I don't know what I was doing."  
"You were doing what you believe was right," I told her. "But you were wrong."  
"I know," Kathryn answered. "I replay every second over and over in my head and still, I don't understand. I followed protocols, Chakotay. I followed the rules. He was the one who violated everything Starfleet stands for. How could I be so wrong?"  
"You make the mistake of applying a set of rigid rules to every situation. Sometimes, you have to work outside of the boundaries," I told her gently. "Do you want to sit down?"  
"I'm not staying."  
We stared at each other. I took the chance, reached my fingers out and brushed her cheek.  
"I know what you're afraid of," I said. "You're afraid of becoming like him."  
"That won't happen, as long as Starfleet guides us."  
"At some point, Starfleet was guiding him. We're a long way from home, Kathryn. It's easy to forget."  
Kathryn bit down on her lip, nodding slowly.  
"It's all right," I said. "You. I've told you before. Sometimes you have to relax, Kathryn. It's not always black and white - there is gray."  
"This is my ship," she said in that firm voice, putting me directly in my place. "I want you to remember that."  
Our gazes met and I thought for a moment that she would soften; I was wrong. Her eyes were hard, cold and brittle and involuntarily, I shuddered.  
"I remember it," I said. "Daily."  
And again, that silence. She turned, headed for the door, and then I called out after her, "Kathryn... what happened with Ransom? That wasn't the Maquis way."  
She turned, only for a second, our eyes meeting, and the light caught an unfamiliar glitter in her eyes. She shrugged and disappeared into the corridor.   
I sat down and covered my face with my hands. And I'm not ashamed to admit it, but I cried that night.  
  
****  
  
I listen to Chakotay's carefully modulated voice, my stomach churning as he speaks. His eyes are focused straight ahead and he doesn't even look at me. And afterward, they lead B'Elanna and Chakotay out, leaving me with McArthur.  
"What are you going to do with them?" I ask.  
"If they are found guilty, they will be sent to Alonius Prime," McArthur says.  
"A border colony," I say. "Why not Earth? Why Alonius Prime?"  
"It seems fitting," McArthur says. "Alonius played host to the Maquis countless times; it was a staging ground for many of their raids. It seems only natural we should send the Maquis survivors back there."  
"How many survivors? I understood the Maquis were completely destroyed?"  
"I would say less than two dozen remain," McArthur says. "With the Maquis on your ship, it brings the count nearly to fifty."  
"Out of hundreds," I murmur.  
"You've grown soft, Kathryn."  
"Not soft," I snap back. "These people - these Maquis whom you so cavalierly dismiss - they served on my crew. Doesn't that count for anything at all?"  
"There is no statute of limitations on their crimes," McArthur leans forward, taking my chin in his fingers. I jerk away.   
"No concession for time served or good behavior?"  
"We don't do things that way. You know that."  
"Well, why not? It seems ridiculous to me that the contributions that these people have made to Voyager and to the overall Starfleet mission mean nothing to you."  
"You don't understand. The list of their crimes, especially those against Chakotay, is quite long. Trespassing, robbery, assault, manslaughter, vandalism, mutiny. I could go on, Kathryn, but must I? If we let these people go, then we are sending a message to other terrorists that this type of behavior is allowed, even condoned, and then we would have anarchy on our hands. We must draw a line in the sand, Kathryn. We cannot tolerate this kind of behavior, no matter what has happened in the time between the actual crime and the apprehension of the criminal."  
I shake my head.  
"I do not believe you," I tell him. "I can't believe you would be so uncaring. These people lost everything when the Federation and Cardassia created the DMZ. Wouldn't you fight too?"  
"Your Commander Chakotay said the same thing earlier," McArthur smiles. "He had such potential in Starfleet; command suits him."  
"You didn't answer my question, Admiral."  
The sharpness in my voice startles my old mentor.  
"Wouldn't you fight also?" I ask. "If your places were reversed."  
"I would not resort to murder," he shoots back. "There is no need to glamorize the Maquis movement, Kathryn. They are murderers, plain and simple, and they deserve to go to prison for their crimes."  
"So you have already made your judgment?" I ask. "You have already decided that they are guilty? So this investigation of yours, this questioning. it's all a farce?"  
"You know we strive to be fair."  
"I know what the Federation strives for. What do you want out of this? It's not like you to be vindictive, Admiral."  
"Kathryn."  
"I want an answer. Is this another Star Chamber? Try in secrecy and then, when no one is looking, you execute them or imprison them without interference? That is not how we do things, Admiral. At least not in the Starfleet I remember and certainly, not the way the Federation courts run."  
"You are overreacting. Chakotay mentioned that you tend to take matters a bit personally."  
"You're damn right I'm taking this personally! This is my crew you're talking about! You won't even listen to what they have contributed to Voyager. We would not have survived without them!"  
We stand there, inches apart, nostrils flared. I am breathing unevenly, nearly exhausted by my tirade.   
"I have nothing more to say," I tell him. "But believe me, by the time I get back to San Francisco -"  
"You're not going back to San Francisco," he says. "I was going to tell you."  
"What?" the possibility of not seeing home distresses me. To see San Francisco, to walk in Starfleet's headquarters, to talk to Boothby - these are the things I have been looking forward to ever since we learned that the Alpha Quadrant was within our reach.   
"You will be reassigned," McArthur says. "The Dauntless. You will serve as Captain. It is a deep space mission. It could take anywhere from two to five years to complete."  
"What?"  
"It's the perfect mission for you, Kathryn. There are some spatial phenomenon in the Cateris system and it's relatively unmapped," he goes on genially.  
"What about Voyager?"  
"It's an old ship, and out of regulation also-"  
"It got us home."  
"I understand you have some feeling about that ship, but keep in mind - it is Starfleet's ship, not yours."  
"You're sending me away," I say. "You don't want me to interfere, do you?"  
"It's a great career move, Kathryn. You have potential. Your seven years in the Delta Quadrant ill-served you. You should be making up for lost time; we recognize that fact. I will have a full crew roster for you in a few days and then you will go to Deep Space Nine to meet up with the Dauntless."  
Deep Space Nine. I bite my lip back. Where Voyager's mission began.  
"Can I consider this... offer?" I ask.  
"Of course," McArthur smiles broadly.   
"And if I don't choose to captain the Dauntless?"  
"Well, it would be a misfortune, of course, but we would understand. It may be a while before another posting would become available."  
"I would be willing to wait. I've been thinking about going to Indiana, spending some time in Bloomington, on the farm. It would be nice to have a break."  
"You're not understanding me, Kathryn. Simply put, if you want to captain another starship, you should take this opportunity now."  
"I don't mind," I tell him again.  
His eyes harden, "Kathryn, you know I care about you and I will be honest. There have been some question about your actions in the Delta Quadrant."  
"I don't know what you're talking about."  
"Mr. Chakotay has mentioned an incident or two that we find slightly suspicious," he continues. "Perhaps your alliance with the Kazon bears further investigation."  
"I have been straight forward about everything that has happened. There is no reason to question Commander Chakotay about those incidents. I'll tell you everything you need to know.  
"There are sufficient instances where you violated the Prime Directive," McArthur says. "I pushed for you, Kathryn, and I made some enemies, but I didn't want your career to be ruined. This is a good opportunity for you. Take it."  
"You want me out of the way."  
"I didn't say that."  
"You don't have to."  
"There are plenty of up-and-coming officers who have not been lost in the Delta Quadrant nor have they violated the Prime Directive. The decision is yours, Kathryn."  
We stare at each other and his expression is properly contrite.  
"So what you're proposing is my own command in return for my silence over the fate of the Maquis?" I ask finally.  
"I do not care for the way you summarize my offer," McArthur's upper lip curls in distaste. "But since we understand each other, I think you have caught the essence perfectly. You will let me know, won't you?"  
I nod slowly. I watch my old mentor gather up his PADDs in silence. He seems uncomfortable with my presence, but I continue to watch him. A second later, his com badge beeps.  
"Gilles to McArthur."  
"Go ahead, Ensign."  
"Admiral Paris has arrived."  
"Thank you. McArthur out."  
McArthur turns to me.  
"I won't be able to join you and the Admiral for dinner, Kathryn; something has come up. But I will see you to his quarters."  
And I hear the iron beneath this last sentence; it's a command, not an invitation - I will see Admiral Paris for dinner regardless of my own wishes - and I will go nowhere else except to the Admiral's quarters.  
And without really thinking, I ask McArthur the same question Chakotay asked me so long ago, "What has happened to you, Admiral?"  
He looks at me, unblinking and unflinching.  
"Ask me when this is over, Katie," he says. "Ask me then."  
  
****  
  
Every battle has faded into a distant memory. Some lasted just minutes and others lasted for days, weeks, months. But in reality, one battle is very much like another and it's hard to differentiate what happened where and when or why. The orders come automatically.  
"Red alert!"  
"Fire at will!"  
"Shields at maximum!"  
"Evasive maneuvers!"  
Sometimes it was farcical. What? The Kazon again? Didn't we just fight them last week? Or maybe for a chance of pace, we trade shots with the Krenim. After a while, it just didn't matter. You really didn't even know what you were fighting for anymore, only hoping that the phaser banks were full and ready to go.  
After a while, you don't even hear the red alert klaxon anymore; it's a part of daily life. You get used to life support going off-line or the bulkheads being blown away. The shields never cooperated, no matter how often B'Elanna tried to coax every last bit of energy into them. There were constant ruptures on the decks and the inertial dampers were often off-line. The constant pounding was enough to drive even the most stable of individuals crazy.  
And somehow we managed to hold it together. Held Voyager together, held each other together.  
It was enough to drive anyone crazy.  
The hardest was the Hirogen.   
The battle was over even before it began; they targeted our shields, pummeled us with their superior fire power and then those scaly reptilian aliens were on our ship. I was not on the Bridge when they beamed on, but in Engineering, working with B'Elanna and the others to get the weapons back on line.  
"This isn't working!" B'Elanna yelled at Carey. "Try again. This time, adjust the modulation frequency by point two microns. And hurry! We don't have time!"  
The words weren't even out of her mouth when the doors slid open and the Hirogen hunters arrived, pushing Paris and Janeway in front of them. Tom had an ugly bruise across his cheek and the Captain's hair was mussed, but otherwise she was unhurt.  
"Put your weapon down, Chakotay," Janeway ordered as one of the Hirogen grabbed B'Elanna away from the console.  
"Hey!" B'Elanna screamed, giving the Hirogen one of her best right hooks. The Hirogen snarled and fired his phaser; B'Elanna crumpled and we all stared at her prone body in shock.   
"That was not necessary," Janeway said angrily as Tom struggled with his captor, earning a punch to the face. By now, the Hirogen had all congregated in Engineering, and I noted the arrivals of Tuvok and Harry. Tuvok looked fine, but Harry's nose was bleeding and I could make out some puffiness around his left eye. He noted B'Elanna's still body with some shock, but no sounds came from his slightly parted his lips.  
"It doesn't have to be this way," Janeway tried again. "We can work something out. Just tell us what you need."  
They ignored her.   
"Get the Doctor," one of the Hirogen ordered. "And start the gas."  
Those words, they were the last I remember before I woke up in the World War II simulation.  
These holodeck simulations - from brutal inquisitions to major world battles to primitive hunts - went on for weeks, but I don't remember any of it. I wish I could remember. God, I wish I could.  
All I knew is that I hurt. Every joint in my body, every muscle, every nerve - parts of my body I didn't even know I had.  
And I hated - this was what was the worst of it all - I hated being that helpless.   
Harry, Seven and the Doctor were primarily responsible for helping us get free; somehow Harry managed to jury-rig Seven's cortical implant to jog her memory, to free her of the Hirogen's control. Then Ka - Janeway - she took on the Hirogen, hobbling around her ship on a wounded leg, and managed to get them to surrender.  
She did go back on the Prime Directive that one time and you're going to have to forgive her for that.  
Janeway gave them the holodeck technology.  
She did it to save us.  
The Hirogen are hunters. They need prey. Without prey, their culture is destroyed, their reason for being gone.   
The holodeck gave them a new way of preserving their culture without actually killing.  
When I asked Kathryn about it later, she simply shrugged.  
"What was I supposed to do?" she asked. "Let them have my ship?"  
"I never thought you'd share technology with them. You wouldn't with the Kazon."  
"This was different."  
"How so?"  
"They were simply trying to preserve a way of life," Janeway said.   
"You violated the Prime Directive."  
"I'll take it up with Starfleet when we get back."  
I smiled at her.   
"Don't look now, Kathryn, but you're changing."  
"Changing?" her eyes narrowed.  
"You did something that we in the Maquis would have done."  
I remember her smile then as she reached forward and patted my shoulder in a gesture of solidarity.  
"We do bring out the best in each other, don't we?" she asked.  
"Sometimes," I said. "I think you made the right decision here."  
"I'm glad I have your support. It's hard to command a ship and know you don't have your first officer's support."  
"You always have it," I said sincerely. "Except when I think you're making a mistake."  
"So this deal, it wasn't a mistake?"  
I shrugged.  
"It's done now, right? We'll have to wait and see."  
Janeway nodded, leaned back in her chair, and tapped her fingers on the desk.  
"Do you ever wonder what's out there for us, Chakotay?"  
"I'm afraid to ask."  
"I'm fascinated," she said. "But at the same time, I want to get home alive. We've already lost too many people, Chakotay."  
"So you're going to do what it takes?" I asked, trying to read between the lines.  
"I've made a promise," she said. "Some days, it's hard to get out of bed and know that I'm letting nearly 150 people down each day we're out here."  
"No one blames you and no one holds it against you."  
"That doesn't change my resolve. We're getting home, Chakotay."  
"I'm glad to hear it."  
"The ship's taken a lot of damage. I don't know how much longer B'Elanna can hold her together. I'm damn tired of hearing the reports."  
"As am I."  
Janeway leaned forward again so that our faces were barely inches apart.  
"I don't want to go through something like this again," she said. "We spent weeks acting out different battle simulations, getting killed over and over again, and what did we gain from it? Nothing, nothing at all. Just some scars that we cannot recall how we got."  
"So you're damning the Prime Directive?"  
"Don't misunderstand me, Chakotay. The Prime Directive is our guiding principle. Voyager is still a Starfleet ship."  
"But?"  
"I'm prepared to be flexible," her lips curved up. "If you have a better way, Chakotay, you have to tell me. I promise I won't turn away and I promise to listen. I think we've had enough. Don't you?"  
I only had to look at the phaser burns on walls, evaluate the wounded in sickbay and note the damage to the port nacelles to answer that question.  
"Yes," I said. "I've had enough."  
  
****  
  
Admiral Paris is thinner than I remember; more lines cross his weathered face than I care to see. Yet he is warm and affectionate as I enter his quarters.  
"I'm just getting settled," he says. "It's a long trip, you know. And I'm not young anymore."  
"Don't say that. You look wonderful."  
"Thank you. Have a seat, Kathryn. Something to drink? I brought up a Chardonnay from Napa. I remember you liking that."  
"I do, thanks."  
"It's been a great year for the wines," he says conversationally. He pours the wine and hands me a goblet. I take a moment to look around. Quarters at Starbase 87, even for an Admiral, are sparse. The carpet is gray with a maroon pattern woven into it. Furnishings are old and worn and there are no amenities, no artwork and certainly no luxuries.   
"That's good to hear," I tell him.  
"It's good to have you back, Kathryn. Wasn't ever sure you'd make it back. So many obstacles, so many things that could go wrong."  
"Yes," I sip my wine. "This is wonderful, Admiral."  
Paris sits in front of me.  
"How is Tom, Kathryn?"  
"He is good, sir," I answer. "He did some magnificent flying out in the Delta Quadrant. Got us out of a sticky situation more than once."  
"I'm glad to hear of it. I wasn't sure that he'd become anything. apparently he has turned himself around," Paris' eyes are shining; I have no doubt he is genuinely proud of his son. "You only want the best for your children, Kathryn. You want them to succeed and you want them to be proud of their accomplishments. Somehow, Tom and I never saw eye to eye on that. I made some mistakes with him and God knows, he did his best to push the rules. But even when I was most upset with him, I still loved him and I was always, always proud of him."  
"Even after Caldik Prime?" I ask without thinking. Paris meets my gaze head on.  
"That... was an unusual circumstance," he says. "Tom went too far. Even then, it's hard for any parent to feel anything less than dismay. I said some things I probably shouldn't have and I pulled away when my boy needed me the most. I do regret that. Don't think I don't. I wondered what I had done wrong, why he couldn't be more like me and then, while he was gone, I realized that it was probably wrong of me to expect a mirror image of myself."  
"You would be proud of him," I say sincerely. I am touched by Owen Paris' words. In general, he is not a person given to verbosity and where Tom is adventurous and open, the father is more private, more closed-off.  
"I have ordered dinner," Paris says. "Traditional Bajoran. I hope that is all right with you."  
"Sounds marvelous."  
Paris leans back against his chair, "You look well, Kathryn. A bit tired, but on the whole, you look well."  
I feel the blush rising in my cheek, "Thank you, sir."  
"I knew you'd bring them home. If there was one thing I was certain of, it was that you would bring Voyager home."  
"I never had any other intentions, sir. There were times when I thought we would have to settle on some planet, but always, I had my mind set on home."  
"So Chakotay is telling us."  
I lean forward, "Please tell me about what's going on. I talked to Admiral McArthur and I'm disappointed in the proceedings."  
"There are some, Kathryn, who cannot forget the betrayals of the Maquis. Chakotay is the biggest fish they have been able to get their hands on. They couldn't get Eddington, so now they have Chakotay."  
"I don't understand what's going on. It's not even a trial, yet they have already made up their minds on a verdict?"  
"Their minds were made up the day you went after the Maquis raider," Paris says gently. "Wasn't yours? Did you believe they were guilty?"  
"Yes, at first, but then I got to know them."  
"But you still thought some of their methods were wrong?"  
"Yes," I answer. I remember all of the times when Chakotay would propose the "Maquis Way" as a solution to a problem and how distasteful I would find the suggestion. "But I never thought condemning them en masse to Alonius Prime would be the answer."  
"It is a token gesture," Paris says. "I think."  
"You think?" I raise my voice slightly but before he can answer, the door chimes.  
"That would be our food," Paris gets up. "Excuse me, please."  
A slight throb builds in my right temple; I lean forward, put the wineglass down and cover my face with hands. After a moment, Paris touches my shoulder.  
"Come eat," he says.  
We sit at the table and he serves us both. The hasperaat smells wonderful. In addition, there is a wild field green salad and rolls.   
"Have you had a chance to talk to Tom yet?" I ask.  
"Not yet," Paris frowns. "Something about a communications blackout with Voyager?"  
I sigh, "So it's not just us. There is something odd going on."  
"I think they want to take care of the Maquis question before anyone raises an issue," Paris says.  
"McArthur already offered me a posting on the Dauntless in return for my compliance."  
"That doesn't sound like Rodney."  
"It's true."  
"That's not how we do things. I will talk to him."  
"I just want to know why the secrecy? What are people afraid of?"  
Paris sighs.  
"I know, Kathryn, that you take the ideals of Starfleet and therefore, the Federation, very personally. Would it surprise you to know that there are others who don't?"  
"At this point, nothing would surprise me. What are you talking about?"  
"During the formation of the DMZ, there were promises made that were not kept," he says. "Many of the Federation's top officials were involved."  
"Who were these promises made to?"  
"The settlers on the border colonies."  
"Were they made in writing?" I ask.  
"Some of the promises, yes."  
"Was McArthur involved?"  
"I doubt it. He was not part of those negotiations. He's not the type to do anything like that."  
"What kind of promises?"  
"Some settlers were promised that they would not have to give up their homes."  
"That I knew. Chakotay said something to that effect once," I answer. "What else?"  
"They were also promised Starfleet protection in return for a price."  
I put my fork down and wipe my lips with the linen napkin provided.   
"That's extortion," I whisper. "Federation citizens have a right to protection."  
Paris nods, "And in this case, the Federation let these citizens fend for themselves. The protection was offered covertly by a group of Starfleet officers interested in advancing themselves."  
"Were they Maquis?"  
"No, in general, they frowned on the Maquis movement. They did not believe in it. In that way, they did support the interests of the Federation, which at this particular time, was peace with Cardassia. But they did see the opportunity to advance themselves and they took it. More wine, Kathryn?"  
"No." I stand up and wander over to the windows. From the corner of my eye, I can see Voyager in space dock. "How misled we were, Admiral. We advocate peace with Cardassia to be in the best interests of the Federation."  
"Except for those living in the DMZ," Paris says. "That was the whole problem, the whole reason why the Maquis existed. General Order Six, which normally offers Federation citizens priority protection if requested in an emergency situations, was effectively ignored."  
"And so when some Starfleet officers offered them that protection?"  
"The settlers jumped on it," Paris nods. "Some of them wiped out their life savings."  
"Those officers could be court-martialed," I say. "It's a violation of everything Starfleet stands for. We don't charge for our protection if we can, by law, offer it."  
"You're right," Paris nods. "But we don't know who these officers are. Unfortunately, most of the people who could tell us are dead. The others are missing, presumed dead."  
"Chakotay would know."  
Paris joins me at the window, the wineglass still in his hand.  
"I think you've answered your own question," he says quietly. "There are forces at work here that you cannot possibly control, no matter how hard you try."  
I lean back against the window, crossing my arms against my chest.  
"I've always rebelled against the idea that the Federation could be anything less than good."  
"You've always had that blind streak, Kathryn. You've always preferred to see the good rather than the evil that could lie beneath. I've always admired that trait of yours."  
"So much good it's done me," I answer. "Admiral, I have to know their names."  
"I wish I could help you," the Admiral answers. "I've told you everything I know. You'll have to ask Mr. Chakotay."  
"They won't let me talk to him, not really. I'm amazed they're letting me talk to you."  
"I asked," he says. "Rodney and I go back a long way. Besides, I have a rather personal reason why I wanted to spend time with you. I want to know about my son."  
"He doesn't have to return to New Zealand, does he?"  
"No," the Admiral says. "The earlier condition stands. He's free to do as he likes."  
"Well, that's a relief," I say. "Tom will be glad to hear that; I think he was worried about it. People have a way of forgetting promises once made."  
"Believe me, no one was going to forget this promise. I made sure of it."  
"Good. Thank you."  
"So?" the Admiral questions eagerly. "How is he?"  
"Tom's doing well," I say. "You'd be proud of him. He's settled down nicely, just got married-"  
"Married?" Owen Paris' eyes grow large. "Who?"  
"B'Elanna Torres."  
"The Klingon Maquis engineer."  
"You know her then?"  
"Only from her record," Paris says. He points to a stack of PADDs on a side-table by the sofa. "Those are yours, Kathryn, so you can see exactly what charges are levied against the Maquis."  
"Thank you. I'll give them to Tuvok," I say.   
"It makes for some fascinating, if not chilling, reading," Paris comments. "I think you'll be surprised."  
"Surprised?"  
"Read and find out," he says. "I don't think the Federation is entirely wrong in putting them on trial, given the scope of their crimes."  
"Whatever is on those PADDs is seven years old," I answer. "They are different people now and contributed greatly to getting us home. That has to mean something."  
"We in the Federation have never been very good at looking at the gray areas," Paris comments. "I suppose you could offer up their loyal service as a detail."  
"I thought you could put in a good word for them, especially now that one of them is your daughter-in-law."  
There is silence, an unmistakably tense silence as the Admiral considers my request.   
"Please," I say. "For Tom."  
The Admiral paces, pauses, his hand on the sofa and then turns to face me.  
"I never thought," he says, "that it would be like this."  
"Like what?" my voice is unnecessarily sharp and impatient.  
"With Tom," he says. "I suppose I should be grateful that he settled down."   
"He's come a long way."  
"In the back of my mind, I always thought he would marry Jessica Marlowe."   
"Who is she?"  
"Bruce Marlowe's daughter," he says. Bruce Marlowe captained the Venture during the battle of Wolf 359; he and his crew of 250 were among the casualties lost during that terrible day. I had known Bruce briefly; he had been at the Academy at the same time as I was, though two years ahead. Later, we had served together under Owen Paris. "They dated on and off for four or five years, right up until Caldik Prime. Always liked Jessica, thought she was good for Tom. Calm, very competent, restrained and good pedigree too. Her mother was Barbara Marlowe."  
"The professor. Temporal mechanics," I remember.  
"Yes," Paris looks down at his hands. "I guess I should have known. Jessica was too good for him and I know he never realized that. Shouldn't have let her go."  
I bite my lip, wondering what to say next. Sing B'Elanna's praises? And if so, what to say? There was certainly nothing I could compliment about her pedigree; the admiral had already shown his bias in that respect and I want so much to say something that will flatter B'Elanna, and not put her into those neat little categories - Klingon, engineer, Maquis - that people automatically slot her into. Yet, that is B'Elanna, unique and utterly complex, warring with herself and everyone around her.  
"B'Elanna. she was one of the people most responsible for getting us home. She could, um, fix anything. Has this uncanny ability to pull rabbits from her hat," I say finally.   
"I'm sure," Paris says. "None of Tom's brief letters through the data stream mentioned her. Was it sudden?"  
I shake my head.  
"The wedding was sudden, but not them. They, they have been together for a while. He," I pause, hating myself for the sudden tinge of jealousy which rankled in the back of my mind. "He loves her."  
"I wanted someone stable for him," Paris says. "Someone who could calm him down, make sure something like Caldik Prime didn't happen again."  
"He's changed," I point out for the umpteenth time. "He's not the same person you remember, Admiral."  
"And I have you to thank for that," Paris heaves a great sigh. "I wouldn't even give him a second chance, yet you did. I appreciate it, Kathryn. Appreciate what you've done for him."  
He sighs again, those broad shoulders slumping slightly. He turns to face me, running his hand through his almost snow-white hair.   
"It's late," he says. "I should get you back to Voyager."  
"Sounds good," I say. Already, I'm longing desperately for the comforts of Voyager. I pick up the PADDs and head for the door. Out in the corridor, Paris indicates the way.  
"Kathryn," he says. "Whatever happens, I'm going to do my best to stop it."  
"Thank you."  
"You understand that there are things out of my control?"  
"I know that."  
"Decisions are made by people and they don't necessarily share the relevant information with me."  
"I know."  
"I'm too close to this one, Kathryn. I need you to understand that."  
"I know," I repeat. "You don't have to explain. I understand."  
"I guess I got what I wanted," his eyes are cloudy and he stares straight ahead.   
"News about Tom?" I smile.  
"Yes."  
"You could see him in person," I suggest. The Admiral nods.  
"I will," he says. "Maybe in the morning. I do have some things I need to take care of first."  
"I would think you would want to see your son before all else."  
"You know how Starfleet is," Paris laughs nervously. "There are some things that cannot wait."  
I put my hand on his forearm, stopping him in his tracks.   
"I need to ask a favor," I say.  
"What?"  
"Will you do something for Chakotay and B'Elanna?"  
He takes a minute before answering; we are almost at Voyager before he puts his hand on my forearm, stopping me.  
"I will talk to Rodney," he says. "But it might be too late."  
"At least a fair trial," I plead.  
"I will do what I can."  
"Don't condemn them before hearing what they have to say."  
"It might be easier to negotiate with the Borg."  
This time, I stop him and I look him straight in the eye. "I've done that, Admiral. When I was in the Delta Quadrant, I did what I had to do."  
We walk a bit more and then I'm at the airlock. Paris runs his hand through his hair again, a nervous gesture I remember from years ago.  
"Good night, Kathryn," he says quietly.   
I'm halfway through the door when Paris calls after me.  
"Kathryn?"  
"Yes, sir?"  
"Is... is Tom happy?"  
There are so many ways I can answer this question. In my presence, Tom is nothing less than sullen and unresponsive - a far-cry from the cocky young man who first came onto Voyager seven years previously. But when I think of him with B'Elanna, when he looks at her and thinks no one else is watching, I know the answer to the Admiral's question.  
I nod, "Yes, he is. B'Elanna, she has a lot to do with that."  
Paris nods and then points to the door; I get the hint and it's back to Voyager I go.  
But before I can sleep, there is something I have to do.  
"Janeway to Tuvok."  
"Yes, Captain?"  
"I have some information here," I look down at the PADDs. "Looks like the charges against the Maquis. Can you meet me in my quarters?"  
"I'm on my way."  
And for the first time since leaving McArthur, I feel a small measure of hope.  
  
****  
  
Ah, the Borg. How did I know that was coming next?   
I suppose everyone wants to know how we went up against the Borg countless times and managed to come out ahead every time.   
Hell, sometimes I want to know how too.  
I still wake up in the middle of the night, sweating, and thinking that there is a Borg lurking around every corner.   
And you know, some days, they were everywhere. Damn if they aren't prolific. But I suppose if you don't have a nine month gestation period and all you have to do is assimilate a planet or two to grow, then it's easy to be everywhere.  
Our first hint of the Borg came on Sakaari. The inhabitants of that planet lived underground, which both confused and interested us. It didn't take us long to find the exoskeleton of a drone, hidden in the bushes. I remember looking at Kathryn and saying, "What do you think?"  
She looked at me, her lips drawn into a straight line, her eyes going to and fro quickly. I could tell she was thinking of Wolf 359; I mean, who wouldn't? At that battle, there was an entire armada of Starfleet ships up against the Borg and yet, the casualties were extraordinarily high. And here we were, in the Delta Quadrant with no friends, and the Borg could be anywhere.  
We had gone up against the Kazon and the Hirogen with some degree of success but maybe our number was up. Maybe it was the end for Voyager.  
I could tell that the Captain was perturbed by our discovery but she cautioned me not to say anything to anyone else.  
"It could be a fluke," she said. "It has been years since the Borg were here. I doubt they are hanging around. Sensors haven't picked up any trace of them."  
"I hope you're right," I told her sincerely. Still, as I stared down at the remains of the Borg drone, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.  
I didn't like it, didn't like it at all.  
And within a few weeks, we were face to face with the Borg. Our choice then was not easy - the Borg or Species 8472.  
With the Borg, there was the omnipresent threat of assimilation; the thought of their long tubules piercing flesh sent shivers down the spine. On the other hand, Species 8472 regularly ate Borg for breakfast.  
"Not a good situation, no matter how you look at it," I told Kathryn. "Let's find another way."  
"No," she said. "Going through Borg space is the quickest way home."  
"Dammit, Kathryn, don't let your emotion cloud your judgment, not this time. The risks don't outweigh the benefits. We could be a ship of Borg drones before this is over."  
"What do you suggest? Going around would add several more years to our journey, if not more."  
"How about settling down here in the Delta Quadrant? Can you consider that option? Maybe we could avoid either species. Living here is preferable to assimilation."  
"I've noted your objection," she said coldly. And I knew that tone of voice, icy and pure iron; had heard it a million times in the past, in a variety of situations, when she was obviously disregarding my advice. Janeway's hand grasped the back of the chair - almost as if looking for support - her fingers nearly bloodless from exertion.   
"You're not going to do it," I said quietly.  
"There's another way."  
"Which is?" I asked.  
Her eyes, cold and hard, focused off into the distance and I knew I wasn't going to like what she was about to propose.   
"I've come up with a plan," she said. "The best of both worlds. It would help us and it would help the Borg."  
"What is it?" I queried. Already, I could feel the muscles in my neck tightening and a pain developing right above my left eye.  
The Captain had decided to go with a Borg alliance much to my dismay. I gave Kathryn the fable - maybe you know it - about the scorpion and the fox. The fox and the scorpion make a deal: the scorpion can cross the river on the fox's back. Once on the other side, the scorpion stings the fox; when the fox asks why, the scorpion simply responds, "You knew what I was before we made the deal."  
And so it was with the Borg.  
They sent us Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct to Unimatrix One, as their representative. Even then, the Borgified Annika Hansen, possessed a haughtiness and a sense of superiority. An intelligent scorpion perhaps, but deadly all the same.  
Confrontations eventually all blur together, blending and bleeding colors and lines into a hazy illusion of what was. I do not remember words much, only actions and feelings, and I remember staring down at Kathryn as she lay unconscious in sickbay. I squeezed her hand, hoping against hope, that the warmth from my body would flow into hers; I was wrong. She lay there silent, having gambled with the Borg and lost.   
At least that was my interpretation. She had taken a risk, had been wrong, and now I was in command, and I had to do what was best for Voyager.  
So I whispered, "Forgive me," and then let go of her hand.  
To countermand and contradict your commanding officer is never easy; thirteen years in Starfleet prior to the Maquis had drilled a certain sense of obedience into me. But I was angry that we had been pushed up against a wall; getting away from the Borg would now be as easy as squeezing water out of a turnip. And so I broke the Alliance with the Borg.  
In retrospect, I broke the Alliance because I didn't want to form it in the first place; I thought Kathryn was wrong and here was my chance to put it right.  
I was wrong. When she woke and I had to explain my actions, I really thought it was over for us then. Really thought that there was no way to restore our working relationship and that she would go back to trusting Tuvok over me again.  
We did find a way, though, to work together and not let our individuality destroy us - but my conscience still continued to plague me. I had never directly disobeyed the Captain's orders before - disagreed, yes - but never disobeyed. And I wanted her to know how much I regretted losing her trust, but not what I did.  
So after we severed Seven's link to the Collective - and that's another issue entirely - I went in search of the Captain, finally locating in her the holodeck, writing out her logs with feather and ink.  
It was an odd scene, bereft of the technologies of the twenty-fourth century yet comforting and cozy.  
"Am I interrupting?" I asked.  
"Not at all. I'm just finishing up my log."   
"The old-fashioned way," I commented.  
I wanted to get as far away from bio-implants and fluidic space and... this feels more human somehow."   
"I hate to spoil the mood. It's going to take at least two weeks to get remove all of the Borg modifications, but B'Elanna says some of the new setups work better than the previous technology."  
"Leave them. How is our passenger?"   
Of course, there were so many ways to answer this question. Mentally, I wasn't sure. In a way, we had amputated Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct to Unimatrix One, from the only family she really knew. It had been a necessary step, but not one that I felt very comfortable about. And only time would tell how we would adjust to having a former Borg drone on board and how she would adjust to us.  
I only hoped that the drone - hadn't quite come to think of her as Seven yet - could forgive us and understand why we did what we did.  
Even if we couldn't understand  
"The doctor says she's stabilizing. Her human cells are starting to regenerate," I said.  
"I wonder what's left underneath all that Borg technology," Janeway said. "If she can ever  
become human again."   
"You're planning to keep her on board."  
"We pulled the plug. We're responsible for what happens to her now."   
"She was assimilated at a very young age; the Collective is all she knows. She might not want to stay."   
"I think she might. We have something the Borg could never offer... friendship."   
I grabbed the back of one of the high-backed chairs, thinking how so recently I had betrayed my friendship with the Captain.  
"I want you to know that disobeying your orders was one of the most difficult things I've ever had to do."   
Her gaze was warm, understanding, and I could see that she no longer held any rancor towards me.  
"I understand. And I - respect the decision you made, even though I disagree with it. What's important is that in the end we got through this, together. I don't ever want that to change."   
"Agreed."  
"Good. Well. I think it's time we got back to our bridge."   
"No argument there."   
"Computer, end program," Janeway called out. The Renaissance room melted away and was replaced with the grided sterile walls of the holodeck. "You're not really comfortable with the idea of having the drone remain on the ship, are you?"  
I let her exit the holodeck first before answering the question.  
"It's the same as having a Cardassian serving aboard a Federation starship," I said carefully.  
"Not the same thing at all," Janeway said.   
"What if she wants to return to the Collective?"  
"I don't think that will happen."  
"That's optimistic, isn't it? We want to return home, don't we? To our families and friends? Why wouldn't it be the same for her?"  
"I suppose we'll deal with that when she recovers. It will work out, Chakotay." Her fingers brushed the back of my hand lightly. "And for what it's worth, I know it took a lot for you to disobey my orders. You wouldn't have done it if you didn't believe you were doing what was right for this ship. I can't fault you for that."  
"So I'm forgiven?"  
Janeway smiled, "This time, yes."  
And I looked at her, "There won't be a next time, Kathryn."  
Kathryn laughed.  
"Don't count on it, Commander," she said. "There's always a next time."  
And with the Borg... damn, they were always around the corner, lurking, always with something new to taunt us.   
You asked about the operation to infiltrate the Borg cube. Yes, I was opposed to that too, because it would mean sure assimilation for the Captain and anyone she chose to take with her. Kathryn insisted it was part of a plan that would help the Borg find their individuality.  
"What if the neural suppressant doesn't work?" I asked her as the two of us planned the operation.  
"That's a chance I'm willing to take."  
"What about the psychological effects? Assimilation... it's not like regenerating broken skin or a broken bone. It's an invasive procedure."  
"I'm aware of that."  
"You don't agree with Borg philosophy," I said. "What if you have to do something... something you disagree with?"  
"Are you talking about assimilation?" she asked evenly.  
"Yes."  
Janeway leaned across the table, her hands folded neatly in front of her. "I have considered all of the ramifications of what we're doing here, Chakotay. Don't think I haven't."  
"I'm not, but I am concerned. As your First Officer..."  
"And more," she slipped in.  
"And more," I allowed myself a small smile. "As your First Officer and your friend, I'm having a hard time with this decision of yours. And believe me, it's purely selfish and self-serving."  
"I thought so," she said quietly. "Voyager is yours, Chakotay. If something happens to me, promise you'll get this crew home."  
"You know I will."  
"Do what you have to."  
"There's no doubt about that."  
"I think that's all," she said quietly. "Do you have anything else?"  
I nodded.  
"Come back," I said. "Don't make yourself too comfortable over on that cube."  
Janeway grinned, the first real smile I had seen from her during this entire meeting.  
"You can count on it," she said.   
It took us three months to get them back. Three months is an eternity, especially when you don't know what's going on. We had no idea, for most of that time, if they were even alive or if they were functioning as part of the Collective or if they even retained an iota of their own personalities, that individuality we put such a high value on.  
When they - Tuvok, B'Elanna, Kathryn - did return, I had to brace myself, try not to flinch, as I stared at their armored bodies. And I couldn't see how they could possibly be the same again, how they could even go back to their pre-Borg lives without any psychological effects at all.  
Tuvok was the quickest to recover, no surprise, given his exceptional meditative abilities and emotional control.  
Kathryn, outwardly, she was fine. That commanding tone of hers was back within days, those hardened eyes, the set of her jaw - that was all there. At night though, I would find her in the mess hall or on the holodeck, staring into space or drinking bottomless cups of raktajino.  
On one such occasion, I dropped by her quarters and found her curled up on the sofa, a blanket pulled tightly around her shoulders.  
"Can't sleep," she said as I sat down next to her.  
"I can call the Doctor," I offered. I picked up one bare foot and slowly began to massage the sole, my fingers moving up her calf. Kathryn leaned her head against the sofa back, her eyes half-open.  
"Don't," she said.  
"You have to get some rest."  
"I try. I tried counting sheep yesterday and today, it was hot milk."  
"You need a sleep aid."  
"I don't think that's going to help."  
"You want to tell me about it?"  
And that's when she began, her voice very low, halting with just the barest hint of emotion.   
"I was wrong," Kathryn said. "I was so intent on eliminating the Borg threat, that I didn't think of the consequences. I probably should have listened to you more."  
I shifted to take her other foot into my lap.  
"That feels good, Chakotay," she said. "I didn't realize how cold a Borg cube could be."  
"It's not something you think about."  
"And loud. Very loud. The voices never stopped. And it amazed me because there were never any discussions about anything; decisions were made and carried out efficiently. All of those voices, they never debated anything - they simply communicated what we were to do. Some days, I could resist and I know B'Elanna and Tuvok could too, but other days, damn, it was hard."  
"What's bothering you?" I asked.  
"The assimilations."  
I dropped her foot, gently, of course, and sat back. Kathryn shrugged her blanket-covered shoulders.  
"There was a child," she said. "Maybe five years old? He was my first one. His name was Devin. I remember thinking that this was wrong, but I could not control my own limbs. He screamed, Chakotay, screamed for his parents and then in pain. And finally, he was silent."  
"I'm sorry."  
"I don't know how I'm going to explain any of this to Starfleet."  
"Exactly the way you just did."  
"It doesn't get easier. You know how the saying goes? The first one is always the hardest? Each assimilation after that little boy, they got harder and harder. I don't know how many there were. B'Elanna won't talk about it and Tuvok, well, Tuvok refuses to speculate."  
"How many do you think there were?"  
"Hundreds," Kathryn said. "I don't know. There was no scoreboard, no count of how many planets we ravaged and added to our own perfection."  
"Our?"  
Kathryn's lips turned up into a sad smile and she reached for my hand, clasping it between both of hers.   
"I can't help it," she said. "I miss the voices."  
I pulled her into my arms, and she snuggled up against my chest, her own arm against my stomach, the other grasping at my hand.   
"Please tell me," she whispered. "Tell me I'm not Borg."  
I kissed the top of her head, smoothed hair back from her brow. I knew she wasn't ready for more, so I tightened my embrace.  
"Chakotay?" Kathryn's voice was more desperate, more plaintive. "Please."  
"You're not," I said.   
But I don't think she believed me. Hell, I didn't even believe me. But we stayed that night on the sofa, curled into each other.  
I would like to think that for that night, the demons stayed away.  
  
****  
  
When we were going through dead space, I found it difficult to move, to generate enthusiasm for anything. When they marched the Maquis off of Voyager, that same ennui grabbed my muscles and I felt absolutely powerless. But armed with the PADDs of information, now that was something.  
I settle in my quarters and after gulping down a cup of hot French roast, I summon Seven, Harry, Tuvok and Paris to my quarters.   
They arrive promptly, all of them wearing expressions of varying degrees of curiosity for my late-night invitation.  
"I thought you were still on the starbase," Tuvok says as he settles into the chair opposite mine.  
I gestured to the PADDs in front of me.  
"Courtesy of Admiral Paris," I say. Tom's eyes widen and I feel a tinge of sympathy for the young man; he has yet to speak with his father.  
"How is he?" Tom asks, careful to keep his tone painfully neutral.  
"He looks good. Asked about you," I answer. "He is proud of you, Tom. Maybe you will get a chance to catch up later."  
Tom nods and then picks up a PADD.  
"What are these?" he asks.  
"These," I say, "are the criminal records of the Maquis. More specifically, the list of crimes attributed to the Chakotay cell."  
"Sounds rather glamorous when you put it that way," Harry tries to joke; Tom turns on his friend vehemently.  
"It wasn't glamorous," Tom says. "It was a hard life. They were fighting against insurmountable odds and they never gave up."  
"Hey," Harry holds up a hand. "I got that. It just has been a long time since I thought of Chakotay or B'Elanna as Maquis."  
"Indeed," Tuvok says. "It is difficult to reconcile what is on these PADDs with the people we have served with for the past seven years.  
I look at Seven who is intent on her PADD, her eyes darting back and forth as she scans the material. Her brow wrinkles ever so slightly and I can just hear the question formulating in her head.  
"Seven?" I ask.   
She lifts her head, "Yes, Captain?"  
"Do you have any questions?"  
"No," she says. "I am simply surprised. I did not realize that Commander Chakotay had so many... acts of sabotage against his name."  
"The things you learn about people," Tom says in a hollow voice. "Did not know that they led the attack on the USS Malinche. Five Starfleet officers dead."  
"You should know," Harry says. "You were with them for a bit."  
"Not very long. Managed to get myself captured on the first mission I was assigned to. Damn, thought I was a hotshot pilot and I get myself captured."  
"Don't beat yourself up," Harry says. "It was a long time ago."  
"I wish I hadn't let them down," Tom says. "Maybe things would have been different."  
"Different in what way?" I ask.  
"I don't know," he says. "I always wonder what would happen if you could change one moment in your life and I would change that one. I suppose I would still be with the Maquis."  
"Dead or in prison," Harry puts in helpfully.  
"Harry," I say.  
"We wouldn't be here," Tom says. "You needed me, Captain, to help find the Maquis, and without me, we would never have been caught in the Badlands or met the Caretaker."  
"What could have happened is irrelevant," Seven says. She points at the PADD. "This is an irrelevant discussion. It does not help Commander Chakotay or Lieutenant Torres."  
I look over at Tom; he is holding his PADD loosely, not really paying attention to any of its contents. I get up and cross the room and kneel by his side. Without thinking, I put my hand on his knee; he flinches.   
"Tom," I say quietly. "Let's take a walk, okay?"  
He nods. I look at Tuvok, Harry and Seven.  
"Keep going over the records," I say. "We have to be prepared for any and all accusations."  
Out in the corridor, Tom's face is impassive.  
"What do you want?" his tone is belligerent.  
"I want to talk to you. We haven't had the chance and it is my fault. I apologize."  
"Nothing for you to apologize for. You've been busy."  
"I've been avoiding you. There's a difference, Tom."  
"Why now?" he asks.  
"You blame yourself for a lot, don't you?" I ask quietly. "And I want that to change."  
"That's a tall order, Captain. I seem to leave nothing but trouble in my wake."  
"That's not true."  
"I manage to mess up everything," he says. "You don't see it because I'm just another rehabilitation project to you, another person you cured of terminal incorrigibility. I'm sure my father thanked you for that."  
"You're not a project."  
"You treat Seven like a science project."  
"There is some truth in what you're saying, unfortunately."  
"You like that," he says. "You like to take control of people and mold them according to your expectations."  
"I don't like to look at it in quite that way."  
"It's what you do," Tom says. "I am grateful, Captain. You gave me a chance when no one else would, but at the same, it's very easy to resent the same opportunity."  
"I can understand that."  
"I was serious back there when I said if I could go back and chance a single moment," he says. "If only I hadn't been cocky and had just completed the mission like Chakotay had ordered, none of this would have happened."  
"What about B'Elanna?" I ask.   
Tom's face softens and for the first time in months, he shows some emotion. He purses his lips and stares glassily off into the distance.  
"Yeah," he says.   
"You didn't mess up with B'Elanna," I remind him. "I think you were good for her."  
"I try so hard, but it doesn't always work," he says. "I can't get to her, no matter how hard I try. And then when she tries to help me, I close up. I'm afraid that I'll ruin her too, just like I do everyone."  
"You don't ruin people, Tom. You just think you do."  
"B'Elanna wanted to stay in the Delta Quadrant. I'm starting to think she had the right idea."  
"You can't run away from your problems."  
We stand there in the corridor, Tom and I, facing each other.   
"You're still angry with me," I tell him. "And that's all right."  
"I can't help myself," Tom answers. "I try to evaluate everything that has happened from every angle and I still can't reconcile myself. I look at B'Elanna and I realize she isn't the same person she was before the Borg Cube and I think, in time, she will be all right. But what if she's not?"  
"I'm sorry, but I had to do it. And B'Elanna volunteered. You forget that fact sometimes. She wanted to go."  
"B'Elanna admires you. Hell, we all do. There isn't anything we wouldn't do for you, Captain, even assimilation."  
"That's good to hear," I say cautiously. "But I do see the pitfalls of such... admiration."  
"It doesn't mean that we are prepared or that we can handle the aftermath."  
"I understand that."  
"Sometimes, I can't help but think that the high road isn't always necessarily the best one and then I'm never sure why for once why can't we let others fight their own battles? Why do we have to get involved? It doesn't seem right to me, and it's something I've never been able to understand."  
"I think I can see the dilemma," I tell him. "And I'm not sure that I understand either."  
"That's the problem," Tom says. "It's all right to bend the rules sometimes. It's all right to let things go."  
"What if we eradicated the Borg threat? What would you say then?" I shoot back. "Wouldn't that be beneficial to the Federation and other non-allied worlds?"  
"Yes."  
"Then you can't say there wasn't some benefit in what we did."  
"I am an individual, a selfish one. I can't help it. I know what it was like during those days when you were gone, and the uncertainty was excruciating."  
"I'm sorry for that."  
"I suppose it doesn't matter now," he says gloomily. "We don't even know what's going to happen. Hell, they wouldn't even let me talk to B'Elanna. I just wanted to make sure she was okay and they wouldn't give me thirty seconds with her."  
"Tom," I say quietly. "B'Elanna has Chakotay. He will see her through."  
"That's what I'm afraid of."  
In that moment, I have complete clarity. I see Tom, not as a brash pilot or a late blooming protégé, but rather as someone who, when placed in a desperate situation, did the best he possibly could. I see a young man, perhaps outwardly confident, but insecure in his relationships and feelings.  
And I curse myself for not seeing it before.  
"You're jealous of her relationship with Chakotay," I state flatly.  
Tom is taken aback and he literally takes a step away from me. I don't say much, only wait for him to respond.  
When he does speak, his voice is hoarse. "Yes, I am. Is that wrong?"  
"No. I understand completely."  
"I want to be there for her," he says. "I want her to be there for me, but instead we run away from each other. I was hoping to make it up to her this time by being there and standing by her. Now she's going to think I left her too."  
"She won't," I say with certainty. "You're not like that, Tom. You aren't the man you used to be and B'Elanna knows that. I know it. It's important to me that you know that."  
Suddenly, the ship rocks. We both reach out, brace ourselves against the wall, but I still have to take a step forward to steady myself.  
"What is that?" Tom asks as he regains his balance.   
"I don't know. Janeway to Tuvok."  
"Tuvok here."  
"What's going on?"  
"It appears there was an explosion on the station."  
"We're on our way. Go to red alert," I command. I look at Tom. "Tom, we'll continue this discussion another time. You can't blame yourself for everything. You know that, don't you?"  
He shrugs, apparently not convinced. "If you say so."  
The red klaxons sound and we both break into a run, heading up to the Bridge.  
  
****  
  
Brigs are never comfortable. If you are lucky, they - meaning the security guards - will provide a blanket, maybe some reading material. It's impossible to sleep, because there is no soundproofing, and you can hear every clank and clang on the station.  
I sit up on the bench that also passes for a bed and stare across to the cell where B'Elanna is lying, curled into a fetal position, her chin resting on her folded hands.  
The lone guard is reading, his feet propped up on a stool.   
I try to compose my thoughts, trying to anticipate what questions they will ask next. I do not want to give too much away so I've kept many of my answers as vague as possible, hoping they can fill in the blanks with the details from logs.   
I am concerned about Kathryn, wondering how much damage I've done to her career. I do not think I've told them things they don't already know or suspect. I hope for leniency for Kathryn, but it may be in vain; I look at those stern Federation faces, utterly devoid of expression, and I shudder.  
The Kazon-Nistrim seem almost brotherly in comparison.  
The starbase shudders, jolting the security guard out of his complacency. Apparently, forgetting protocol, he erupts out of the room. B'Elanna sits up.  
"What's going on?" she calls out.  
"I don't know," I stand up and make my way to the force field holding me in; B'Elanna does the same. The first night we were locked in here, B'Elanna had paced all night, and occasionally, had thrown herself against the security barrier. Eventually subdued, she had slept, but I had stayed awake, watching to make sure she didn't harm herself further.   
The starbase shudders again, throwing both of us to the ground; I roll against the force field, wincing at the jolt of energy that passes through my body.  
"Are you all right?" B'Elanna calls.  
"Yes," I get to my feet. The red klaxon rings throughout, echoing through the empty corridors.  
"Do you think they know we're down here?" B'Elanna shouts over the din.  
Her question is answered as five or six guards, plus the original security guard, enter the Brig. They efficiently release the force fields, slap manacles on our hands.  
"Is that really necessary?" I ask.  
"Orders, sir," one of the guards, a petite redhead responds. "Let's go."  
"Where are we going?" B'Elanna asks.  
"The station is being evacuated."  
"Why?"  
"There is a meltdown in the main reactor core," is the curt answer.  
"Have you tried reducing the temperature through the fusion relays?" B'Elanna struggles briefly with the guard who has clamped his hand on her upper arm. "Or running coolant through the induction modulators?"  
The redhead guard looks at B'Elanna as if the half-Klingon is speaking Breen.   
"I can help," B'Elanna insists.  
"Our orders are to evacuate all personnel," the redhead says. "Including prisoners."  
They hustle us through the corridors, pushing, pulling, prodding us through them.  
"Hey!" B'Elanna shouts at one point.   
The starbase is a flurry of action, a far cry from orderly Starfleet/Federation evacuation protocols.  
"What about Voyager?" I ask. "Can we contact our ship?"  
"There is no time," the redhead responds.  
"You are getting on my nerves," I tell her. She doesn't respond.  
"What about the others?" B'Elanna asks. "Henley, Gerron, Chell, Dalby, Tabor? What about them?"  
"They are being similarly evacuated. You will see them soon."  
"Where are we going?"  
"Too many questions. Move!"  
They push us through an airlock and onto a waiting shuttle. There are already two pilots aboard and the doors slam close behind us.  
B'Elanna struggles to her feet, no mean achievement without the use of her hands, and then makes her way to the front.  
"What's going on?" she asks angrily.  
The pilots, a little more friendly than the security guards who escorted us here, bring up a blueprint of the station.  
"The reactor core finally gave out," one of them says. "It was only a matter of time."  
"The station is unsafe," B'Elanna states. "It should not have been operational."  
The pilots don't respond to B'Elanna's statement. Instead they request that she sit down since we have clearance to leave.  
"We don't want to be here when it blows," the pilot on the left says. "The shuttle won't be able to stand the shock waves."  
"What about Voyager?" I ask.  
"I don't know anything about that. Please sit."  
The pilots go through the pre-departure protocols and then docking clamps are released and the shuttle is on its way to...   
"Where are we going?" I ask.  
"We have our orders, sir."  
"Which are?" B'Elanna asks.  
"We cannot tell you."  
"Terrific," B'Elanna rolls her eyes. "What can you tell us?"  
The pilot twists around and says, "Your ship, Voyager, it hasn't left the station yet."  
B'Elanna closes her eyes, leans back against the wall, doesn't say anything. I take a deep breath.   
"They will leave, B'Elanna," I say softly. "Don't worry. Tom will be fine."  
"A reactor meltdown, that will cause a cascade reaction," she says. "It will be an explosion of enormous proportions. Voyager has to be able to outrun it."  
"They'll do it."  
B'Elanna doesn't answer.   
"Hey," I call out. "Can one of you release our hands? This is uncomfortable."  
"Sorry. We have our orders," the answer, while negative, is delivered in a sympathetic tone.   
"If they say that one more time," B'Elanna says under her breath.   
"B'Elanna," I say. "There are some things we can control; this isn't one of them."  
"It's making me crazy," she says. "Where are they taking us? Why can't they tell us anything?"  
"Orders," I say snidely.  
B'Elanna snarls at me and I shrug off her anger. There's not much we can do; the pilots are not forthcoming with information. Our hands, literally, are tied. I settle back. It's going to be a long ride.  
  
~ End Part II ~ 


	2. The Darkest Hour

The Darkest Hour  
  
"Get us out of here!" Janeway calls as Voyager lurches yet again. The view screens show the minor explosions on the outer hull of the starbase and to our horror, we see four or five of the EVA-suited technicians floating away. "Harry, see if you can beam them in!   
Tom..."  
  
"I'm on it!" I yell back. "We're cleared to evacuate, docking clamps released... damn, there's something wrong -"  
  
"What is it?" Janeway is at my shoulder.  
  
"The deuterium exchange filter," I slam my fist against the console. "I'm unable to go to warp."  
  
"Seven, get down to Engineering," Janeway says. "Tom, try impulse."  
  
We can see a flurry of shuttles leaving the starbase and I hope that B'Elanna is on one of them.  
  
"We're good here," I say. "We've got impulse."  
  
"I hope that's good enough."  
  
"It's going to have to be," I answer. I chart a temporary course away from the starbase, hoping that even though we're crawling at impulse, we'll have enough time to get away. That's going to be a hell of an explosion, one worth noting for prosperity, but I sure don't want to be around when the place actually blows.  
  
"Harry?" Janeway asks. "What's the status on the transport?"  
  
"Got them but the Doc says they were already dead," Harry reports.   
"Apparently the explosion which propelled them off of the station killed them. Blew out their oxygen supply."  
  
I shudder, remembering the time when B'Elanna and I were drifting in space, basically waiting to die. It's a terrible way to go; you get dizzy from lack of oxygen, your head begins to ache, and each breath drawn in grows increasingly painful as your lungs begin to gasp for oxygen. Eventually, you lose consciousness, knowing in those last lucid moments that you are going to die.  
  
Janeway sighs and then looks at Tuvok who is sitting where Chakotay normally would be.  
  
"Any indication of what happened?" she asks.  
  
"No," Tuvok says flatly. "I am still running an analysis-"  
  
"Captain!" Harry exclaims. "I'm picking up a wave - Tom, do you see that on sensors?"  
  
"Got it," I yell back. "Compensating now. Diverting power to the inertial dampers."  
  
"What is it?" Janeway asks. Voyager rolls and we all struggle back to our feet. I dust myself off before returning to my seat.  
  
"Status!" Janeway bark.  
  
"Shock wave," Tuvok says. "Apparently quite a large one."  
  
"The station is gone," Harry reports.   
  
There is silence on the bridge as we digest this information.  
  
"Only a reactor meltdown could cause some damage," Janeway muses. "It must have been highly unstable from the beginning."  
  
"Makes you wonder why they wanted us to stop here," Harry says.  
  
"Harry, did you get any scans prior to the explosion?" Janeway asks.  
  
"No, sorry," Harry says.  
  
Voyager shudders as the another shock waves hits us.   
  
"Harry, open all hailing frequencies. I want to talk to Admiral McArthur," Janeway says.  
  
"Opening all frequencies."  
  
It seems like eternity but only a few minutes pass before a wane Admiral McArthur appears on the view screen. He looks old, his brow furrowed with concern.  
  
"Captain Janeway," he says. "You escaped."  
  
"What happened?" she asks.  
  
"Reactor meltdown," McArthur sighs. "I'm sorry about that, Kathryn."  
  
"What about my people?" she asks. "The Maquis?"  
  
"I believe there were orders to safely evacuate them."  
  
"You believe? You don't know?" Janeway asks.  
  
"It is my understanding that all prisoners were to be evacuated,"   
McArthur says carefully.  
  
"Were they evacuated?" Janeway persists.  
  
"Unfortunately I won't know until the final count is tallied," he says. "We will rendezvous at Starbase 91. Is your crew all accounted for?"  
  
"Except for those on the station, yes," Janeway says.  
  
"Then you may proceed to Deep Space Nine for your new assignments. McArthur out."  
  
The blue and white Federation logo replaces McArthur's face. I twist around to face Janeway, who is standing in the middle of the bridge, arms akimbo.  
  
"Captain?" I ask.   
  
She shakes her head, taking deep breaths.  
  
"I can't help but think..." her voice drifts off. "Tuvok, is there any way we can find out whether Lieutenant Torres and Commander Chakotay were evacuated?"  
  
"I will try to find a way," Tuvok says. "But I am not optimistic."  
  
"New assignments?" Harry asks. "What is he talking about? Are we being reassigned?"  
  
"Just me," the Captain says. "I'll be captaining the Dauntless."  
  
"When?" I ask sharply.  
  
"Effective when I get to Deep Space Nine."  
  
"Don't you get any time off?" I ask.  
  
"They needed someone right away. It's a deep space mission, two to five years."  
  
"Haven't you already spent enough time in deep space?" Harry asks without a hint of irony.   
  
"Yes," Janeway settles back into her chair. "How long until we reach Deep Space Nine?"  
  
"Looks to be about five days," I report. "At warp five."  
  
"Not enough time," Janeway says.   
  
"Captain?" I question.  
  
"There's something going on, Lieutenant, and I'm not sure what," she says. "We need time to investigate."  
  
I look at Tuvok, who is nodding his head.  
  
"If I take this commission on the Dauntless as scheduled, I'm afraid that the Maquis will be forgotten," she says. "Tom, what does it look like out there?"  
  
"There is a solar radiation storm, magnitude several thousand kilometers," I say. "Going around it will add three to four days to our journey."  
  
"Is that the best you can do?"  
  
"Warp three adds another day or two," I say.  
  
"Good. Do that," Janeway says. "Tuvok, any indication on whether Chakotay, B'Elanna and the others made it off safely?"  
  
Her voice is crisp and clear, but it sends shivers of fear through me. What if B'Elanna did not get off of the station? What if she was there in the Brig, unable to get out? And I can only imagine her fear - seeing her in my mind, pacing back and forth, maybe even trying to disrupt the force field with her own body.   
  
Things have not been exactly smooth for B'Elanna and me. Some of the fault lies with me, but blame also belongs to her; we're too busy fighting each other and we don't stop until it's too late. There have been times when I've wanted to throw in the towel, just walk away from her. But the good outweighs the bad and the moments we share are entirely too precious to let go of.   
  
I want her back.  
  
"Would my father know?" I ask, twisting around. "Could he tell us?"  
  
"Hail him," Janeway says to Harry.  
  
To our dismay, the view screen remains blank. My heart is nearly beating itself right out of my ribcage.   
  
"Looks like we're experiencing some difficulties with communications," Harry says. "Our communications array was slightly damaged in that last shock wave."  
  
"Send an engineering team to work on it," Janeway orders. "Tom, keep trying to hail Admiral Paris, anyone. I need to know what happened back there."  
  
Then she chuckles lightly, "I don't suppose this was the homecoming any of us expected, was it?"  
  
No one else laughs.  
  
****  
  
Cold. That is the first thing I feel as my eyes open. I'm lying on the bench, my hands still handcuffed behind my back. I sit up, notice the pilots up front, both talking in low voices. Chakotay is awake, but lying down, also on his side.  
  
"Hi," he says softly.  
  
"How long?" I whisper.  
  
"I've lost track of time," he says.  
  
"Where are they taking us?"  
  
"I don't know. I asked again. They won't tell me."  
  
I struggle to sit up. There are only two pilots. If somehow we can release our hands...  
  
Chakotay glances at me.  
  
"Don't even think it, B'Elanna," he warns. "It won't work."  
  
"I'm going crazy!" I burst out.   
  
One of the pilots turns around.  
  
"Problem back there?" he asks.  
  
"We're fine," Chakotay answers. "B'Elanna, don't."  
  
His voice is calm, soothing. I grudgingly admit that he is right; no need to start anything here and now. I settle back against the wall.   
  
"What about Voyager?" I ask.  
  
"They tell me only that there were many casualties."  
  
I close my eyes, bite lip, try hard to keep my emotion from bubbling up into something audible. I'm not used to crying. It's not something I do. When I'm upset or angry or sad, I grab my bat'leth and proceed to knock famed Klingon warriors into the next quadrant. I fight until I'm exhausted and too tired for tears to even squeeze from behind my eyelids.  
  
"B'Elanna," Chakotay says. "They made it. I know they did."  
  
I bend my head forward, still not opening my eyes. My stomach churns. I'll be damned if I'm going to be sick.  
  
"I'm cold," I say instead.  
  
"Hey, can one of you get her a blanket?" Chakotay calls out.  
  
To our surprise, the request is actually granted and a blanket is tossed back to me. I lay down and awkwardly gyrate on the bench, trying to spread it over me. Finally, I pull the hem to my chin with my teeth. I look over at Chakotay, who is actually smiling as he watches my gymnastics routine. I finally settle on my side, since it's impossible to sleep on my back with my hands handcuffed.  
  
"Better?" he asks.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I know you're upset," he says. "But-"  
  
"Upset doesn't begin to cover it," I tell him. "If Tom didn't make it, he'll never know-"  
  
"He knows."  
  
"No, he doesn't. All I do is fight him," I say. "We even fought on our wedding night."  
  
"You fight because you're afraid to open up."  
  
"I don't want it to be that way," I say. "I was going to change. Now that we were back, I was going to change for him. I might not get that chance now."  
  
"Don't think that way."  
  
"It might be better this way," I say. "He would have left eventually. You even think so."  
  
"Tom wouldn't have left you, B'Elanna."  
  
"Yes, he would have," I retort. "That's why you warned me away from him in the beginning because you know what kind of person he is."  
  
"I see what you're doing," Chakotay says gently. "You're hardening your heart so that if he is dead, it won't hurt as much. You'll think he would have left anyway, and that makes it a little better, doesn't it?"  
  
I think of my father, the man who forms the basis of most of my knowledge of human men. When I was little, I adored him. I loved the way he would pick me up, swing me in his arms and throw me up. I was never afraid of hitting the ground because I knew he would catch me again. Sometimes, he would run his fingers through my curls and whisper, "Who loves the Little Bee?"  
  
And I would clap my little hands together and squeal out, "Daddy! Daddy!"   
  
I remember other moments like the last time he took me for an ice-cream cone.  
  
"Things change, Little Bee," he said very seriously.   
  
"Like what?" I asked with all of the solemnity a five-year old can muster. At that point in my life, the biggest conflict was whether I should have strawberry or chocolate ice cream. In the end, I picked vanilla.  
  
"Your mother and I," he said. "We both love you very much, but we don't love each other."  
  
I remember just staring at Daddy, not really comprehending what he was telling me. He said something about moving to another city, that he had already picked out a new house.  
  
"What does my room look like?" I asked.  
  
"Well, you won't be coming with me," he said. "But I'll come and visit often. I won't be far. I'll take you to the zoo," he promised. "And when it's warmer, we will go to the beach."  
  
My mother wasn't there the day my father left. I don't know where she went during those few hours when my father was packing up his worldly goods. I was his little helper, and every now and then, he would smile at me and say, "You're so good, Little Bee."  
  
So I asked, "If I'm good, you'll stay, right?"  
  
"I'll come back, Little Bee," he said as he gently disentangled me from his leg. "I promise."  
  
And then he walked out the door, his suitcase in one hand and he only turned once to wave good-bye. I remember standing there in the doorframe, watching him leave and even when I could no longer see him, I stood there.   
  
"B'Elanna?" Chakotay asks. "What is it?"  
  
"Just thinking," I say. "About my father."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I don't know," I confess. "Actually, I do. He and my mother, they   
must have been happy together once, right?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"But he left. I don't understand how that can happen. How can you love someone enough to marry that person and to have a child and then suddenly you're not in love anymore?"  
  
"You have to understand what was like for them," Chakotay says. "The political climate didn't favor anything Klingon and for your father to have married one, that was an enormous risk he took."  
  
"I'm afraid that will happen to Tom and me," I say. "I'm afraid that one day we'll wake up and realize we're not in love anymore."  
  
"That doesn't just happen, B'Elanna."  
  
"It did to my parents."  
  
Chakotay sighs and leans forward. If he could, I'm sure he would cradle his head in his hands.  
  
"Are you in love with the Captain?" I whisper.  
  
He lifts his head, "Why would you ask that?"  
  
"I just have to know."  
  
"I respect her."  
  
"And?"  
  
"Admire her?"  
  
"And?"  
  
"That's all."  
  
"That's all?"  
  
"What do you want, B'Elanna?" he says in an exasperated tone. "My feelings for the Captain are irrelevant."  
  
"Now you sound like Seven."  
  
"I don't know why you're asking the question."  
  
"Would you leave her?" I persist.  
  
Chakotay shakes his head. He smiles, wistfully, I think.  
  
"Not willingly," he answers and then he laughs.  
  
"That's what I thought," I say quietly.   
  
"Not all men are like your father," Chakotay says. "It's unfair for you to think so. In fact, you don't even know the whole story about why your father left. You have drawn conclusions but you could be so wrong. Has that ever occurred to you?"  
  
I take a deep breath.  
  
"I wrote him a letter," I say. "Before we ended up in the Delta Quadrant, I wrote him. He was in Mexico and I wanted so much to find out what had happened and if I was still his Little Bee. I wonder if he got it."  
  
"When this is all over, we can find out," Chakotay promises.  
  
The pilot on the left turns back to look at us.  
  
"We're going down," he says. "Should be down on the planet in about twenty minutes."  
  
"What planet?" Chakotay asks. "Aren't we going to a starbase?"  
  
"No," the pilot responds. "This is where we were ordered to bring you. Alonius Prime."  
  
Chakotay and I glance at each other; we know Alonius Prime well. It is an irony, maybe a planned one, that seven years after we launched our last raid from this planet, they have brought us back here.  
  
"Welcome home," the pilot tells us.  
  
****  
  
It's funny. We spend seven years in the Delta Quadrant longing for the Alpha and when we get back here, the stars look exactly the same. Sure, there are differences. Constellations and galaxies are arranged differently and for the most part, we know where we are. There are few surprises here for us and the lack thereof is amazingly refreshing. It is, in fact, almost a bit boring.  
  
"I almost miss the Hirogen," Harry says as he carries his tray over to the table. "It might be nice to see a Krenim or two."  
  
"You're sick," I tell him. I put my hand to his forehead. "Primitive, but effective. You're running a fever. You can't be blamed for wanting to break bread with the Hirogen."  
  
"You don't have sickbay duty anymore," Harry says. "So don't try to play doctor, okay?"  
  
"Thank God for small favors," I answer. I pick at my food; it's all fresh. Since coming home, we've been blessed with an endless stream of replicator rations. I can have tomato soup, pizza and beer three times a day and not think about it twice.   
  
"Not hungry?" Harry asks.  
  
"Actually, I wouldn't mind a bit of leola root."  
  
"I never thought I'd hear you say that."  
  
"I never thought I'd say it either."  
  
I push my plate aside, trying not to look at the congealing cheese oozing out of my grilled-cheese sandwich.  
  
"I wonder where they are," I say.  
  
"B'Elanna and Chakotay?"  
  
"Yes," I look around. "It's been almost a day. You'd think we'd know by now."  
  
"I'd like to think they got away."  
  
"The whole thing feels funny," I say. "You know, I didn't even get to talk to my father."  
  
"The Captain said he was proud of you."  
  
"It's not the same. I want to hear him say it. I want him to tell me to my face that he is proud of me."  
  
"Yeah," Harry says. "I heard from Libby."  
  
"How is she?"  
  
"Good. Not married."  
  
"That's good. You think...?"  
  
"No," Harry shakes his head. "Too much time. It wouldn't feel right."  
  
"You're not going to try?"  
  
"It wouldn't work."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
"She doesn't even sound the same in her letter."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"Me too," Harry sighs. "But I'm okay with it, mostly because I wasn't expecting her to wait for me. A year or two, maybe, but certainly not seven."  
  
"Seven years is a long time," I agree. "It took me, what, two years to get used to being on Voyager? A year, almost two for B'Elanna to warm up to me? And then two or three years to get used to being with B'Elanna? It's funny. We're sitting here and it's almost like we're right back where we started. We're going back to Deep Space Nine and there are no Maquis on board. In another couple days, we could head into the Badlands and run into the Caretaker again. Then you'd get your wish. You'd see the Hirogen again."  
  
"That was a joke."  
  
"Not a very good one," I say. "Damn. I miss her."  
  
We sit in silence for a long time. I'm thinking about the last time I saw B'Elanna. She was in the interrogation room back on Starbase 87, looking pale and a bit thin. I wondered then if she had been sleeping or eating properly. I knew she wanted to talk to me, could tell it by the look in her eyes, but they wouldn't let me go near her.  
  
"She's my wife!" I yelled at the guards restraining me. "You have to let me talk to her. I just want to make sure she's all right."  
  
As they dragged me out, I saw B'Elanna mouth three words to me and I hope that she saw me say them back.  
  
"They got out," Harry, perpetual optimist that he is, says.  
  
"Yeah, well, I can't think about that," I look back down at my food, now cold. "I've got to go, Harry."  
  
Without waiting for his response, I get up and deposit my tray back into the replicator. The trip back to my quarters seems endlessly long, and on my way, I pass the quarters, which used to belong to B'Elanna.  
  
Knowing she won't be in there waiting for me, I let myself in. The rooms still smell like B'Elanna and all of her possessions, including all of her Starfleet uniforms, remain where she left them.  
  
The bed is neatly made and I note the absence of Toby the Targ. Flowers droop in the vase next to the bed; I had given them to her not long before we arrived in the Alpha Quadrant. Most of her cosmetics are still on the dresser and when I open the drawers, I find them mostly full.   
  
The top drawer holds an odd assortment of objects, from rarely used barrettes to isolinear chips. In the back, I find a small black box. A holoimager. I pull it out and set it on the dresser, pressing a switch in the back to turn it on. To my surprise, it's a holoimage of me. I'm sitting on a rock, leaning forward, my elbows resting on my knees.   
There is a bit of a breeze ruffling my hair. The holoimage of me turns slightly towards the filmer and says her name.  
  
B'Elanna.  
  
I do not remember B'Elanna taking this image and I certainly did not think that my unsentimental half-Klingon would keep a holoimage of me. Yet, here it is, tucked away with the other possession dearest to her heart - a phaselink coupler.   
  
A pair of shoes, kicked off in a hurry, lie next to the bed. I put them in the closet, not really looking at the uniforms and nightgowns still hanging there. There are one or two off-duty outfits in there too, including the flowered sundress she had worn once to a holodeck party. I touch the soft cotton material lightly with my fingers and then shut the doors. Wherever B'Elanna is now, she won't need these.  
I'm on my way out when I notice the PADD lying on the table. My heart beats faster. With my luck and knowing B'Elanna, it's probably nothing but schematics on improving the warp nacelles, but I have to think - want to believe - that she would leave a message for me.  
  
I'm not disappointed.  
  
"Dear Tom, I knew you couldn't stay out of my quarters. I know that because whenever you were gone on away missions, sometimes I would visit your quarters just to remember what you smelled like. Silly, isn't it? I don't know what's going to happen and it scares me. I've spent the last fifteen minutes packing necessities and it's so hard not to take everything with me. I feel like I'm leaving an important part of my life behind, including you. I have to believe that everything happens for a reason and whatever happens now, well, we'll just deal with it. And we'll deal with it the way we should have in the past - together. Tom, I don't have much time. Chakotay is on his way and I want you to know that I'm thinking about you. I love you. B'Elanna."  
  
I sit down in the chair and rewind the letter and reread it. Again and again and again until the PADD squeals in protest. I look up at the ceiling and the back down at the PADD, my eyes blurring on the last four words.  
  
"I love you. B'Elanna."  
  
I rub my hand across my eyes. My throat feels scratchy, almost as if I'm been singing endlessly for hours.   
  
I look around B'Elanna's quarters one more time. It feels like her, smells like and even has her style, but B'Elanna's not coming back.  
  
I get up, PADD in hand, and leave.  
  
****  
  
I don't know whose idea it was to pick to Alonius Prime as the primary center for Maquis operations, but at the time, we had thought it inspired, as if its sole reason to be in the cosmos was to serve as the launch point for terrorists like us. Land covers most of Alonius, with only about forty-seven percent water. Tall mountains cover much of the northern landmasses and because of the strong electromagnetic fields generated by the highly polar north and south poles, it was easy to create a dampening field to mask life signs on the planet.   
  
Alonius is also famous for its bitterly cold winters and ferocious storms, all of which contribute to its inhospitable aura.  
  
The shuttlecraft lands on one of the northern continents and as the back hatch opens, we see that we're at a settlement of some kind. The prefabricated buildings are Starfleet-issue, the supplies we see are also Starfleet.  
  
"Welcome to the Maquis settlement," one of the pilots says to us as he releases our handcuffs. I rub my red wrists gratefully. Chakotay swings his arms back and forth in an attempt to loosen his stiff shoulders. I note the pilot's hand on the phaser on his hip; I have no doubt that the setting is on "kill." My tentative plan to grab the pilot around the neck and aim a knee to the groin has been put on hold. There's not much I can do against a phaser and I like being alive, thank you very much.  
  
"The Maquis settlement?" I ask.   
  
The pilot nods, indicating the buildings in front of us.  
  
"All of the surviving Maquis are here," he says. "I've got fresh supplies, so if you'll give us a hand, we can be on our way."  
  
"You're leaving us here?" I ask.  
  
"Those are my orders," he says easily. "Come on, give me a hand."  
  
I notice Chakotay staring at a trio approaching us.   
  
"Chakotay?"  
  
"It's them," he says in a soft voice. "It's Deres, Camden and Kadian."  
  
"Are you going to help or not?" the pilot is growing impatient.   
  
"One minute," I snap. I take a step forward. The other three are approaching at a quickening pace.  
  
"Chakotay?" Deres, a Bajoran, asks. "Is it really you?"  
  
"Tag, it's good to see you," Chakotay says. "Anna, Leo, I didn't think I'd see you again."  
  
"Nor did we," Anna Camden says. "B'Elanna, how are you?"  
  
"I'm good, Anna," I say. "How... how long have you been here?"  
  
"Since the destruction of the Maquis," Leo Kadian puts in. "Those of us who survived, they put us in a Federation prison for a few months and then sent us out here. It's not a bad life. We can't leave, but we're basically free to pursue our own lives."  
  
"We'd better help with the supplies," Deres Tag says. He moves past me and begins to help the pilots unload.  
  
"You must be tired," Anna says to me. "It must have been a long journey."  
  
"Very long," I agree.  
  
"I'm amazed to see you, B'Elanna," Anna propels me towards the village in front of us. "We heard you were all lost in the Badlands and hadn't gotten any news since. We gave you up for dead."  
  
"I heard about what happened," I tell her. "About the... you know."  
  
"It's been hard," Anna says, knowing exactly what I was referring to - the wholesale slaughter of our friends and comrades. "My goodness, you're shivering. I forgot how cold you get. Come inside and get warm."  
  
"Shouldn't we help out?" I look back at the shuttlecraft. "Don't they need help carrying the supplies back?"  
  
"No, it will be all right. There are plenty of people to help out," Anna says. "Come inside."  
  
She stops in front of the first little building and opens the door.   
  
Inside, there are two rooms - a common living area with a replicator in the far corner and a fireplace on the long wall. The second room is a bedroom. The furniture is all standard Starfleet modular - utilitarian and not necessarily attractive. Anna heads to the replicator.  
  
"Welcome to my home," she says with a smile. "Beats a cave or crowded living quarters on the Liberty, doesn't it?"  
  
I look around. Anna has done her best to add a personal touch to her small home. There are small wooden sculptures and arrangements of dried flowers. A small rug in warm burgundy lies in front of the fireplace. There are two or three pictures on the small end table. Burgundy pillows add color to the otherwise gray room.  
  
"It's nice," I say. "You've done well with the place."  
  
"Raktajino?" she asks. "The replicator, out-dated as it is, actually does a good job."  
  
"Sure," I rub my hands together in an effort to get warm. "Thanks. I appreciate it."  
  
"The ground is frozen," Anna says. "It may take some time to get your shelter up, so you're welcome to stay here with me."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Anna hands me a mug of the Klingon coffee and watches intently as I take the first sip.  
  
"How is it?" she asks anxiously.  
  
"It's good," I say.  
  
She smiles. "I'm glad. You know, when Chell and Gerron showed up, they told us about Voyager, about the Delta Quadrant. It seems like you had a lot of adventures out there."  
  
"That's putting it mildly," I answer.  
  
"Have a seat, B'Elanna," Anna indicates one of two high-backed chairs. "It's not comfortable, but it could be worse. We could still be rotting in a Starfleet brig. At least here, we can forget that we are prisoners. Supplies come every two or three months and we've learned how to make a life here. At least we understand each other. Popular feeling against the Maquis is still fairly high. There are many that still consider us traitors. They never had to fight for their homes, so I can forgive them for that sentiment."  
  
"You're more forgiving than I would be."  
  
"Always the hard one, aren't you?"  
  
"Yes, I suppose."  
  
"No room for sentimentality. God, B'Elanna, it's good to see you again. There are so few of us left now that..." Anna pauses. "I'm sorry, it still hurts."  
  
"I know," I tell her quietly. "I feel so guilty sometimes that I'm still alive. I used to dream up ways to kill myself so then I would know what it would feel like to bleed."  
  
"You don't feel that way anymore, do you?"  
  
I shake my head, "Sometimes I do."  
  
Anna says, "It's hard to forget. I replay some of the scenes over and over again. I think about the battles and I keep thinking that if there was something I could have done differently to prevent it, but I come back to one truth and that is that there was nothing I could do. We were fighting a losing battle from the day we began, B'Elanna."  
  
"I know."  
  
Anna rouses herself and looks out the window.  
  
"Looks like the supplies are in the storehouse," she says. "If you're warmed up, we can reintroduce you to everyone."  
  
"I'd like that," I tell her.  
  
****  
  
The mood is gloomy as we all sit around the conference room table. Janeway, as usual, occupies the head seat, swiveled so she sits perpendicular to the table. She strokes her chin pensively with one hand and her other hand taps a staccato rhythm on the table.  
  
"I've filed a formal complaint with Starfleet Headquarters regarding the treatment of the Maquis," she begins. "I haven't heard anything. I'm starting to think that there is no one in San Francisco. No one with any kind of moral fortitude, that is."  
  
"That's a bit harsh," I observe, even though I secretly agree.  
  
"Our reception has been a bit lacking," Janeway says crisply. "A few answers, I don't think that's too much to ask for."  
  
Harry nods in agreement while Seven looks bored by Janeway's irritation.  
  
"Have we heard anything about the explosion? What about survivors?" I demand.   
  
"Still nothing," she says. "Casualty lists have yet to be compiled."  
  
"What's taking so long?" I demand. "It's been over twenty-six hours. First they delay us back on the station and then they take this long to compile a list of who made it and who didn't? Don't they have a rough estimate by now?"  
  
"Admiral McArthur has promised me that he will make the information available to me as soon as possible," Janeway says calmly. She looks at Tuvok who shakes his head slightly.  
  
"I've been unable to find any signs that Commander Chakotay, Lieutenant Torres and the others escaped the station," he says. "And I have yet to contact Admiral Paris."  
  
"Was everyone meeting at the same rendezvous point?" Harry asks. "Starbase 91, right?"  
  
"Yes," Janeway nods. "But it is possible that some shuttles were diverted due to crowded shipping lanes or inclement conditions."  
  
"It is not yet time to give up hope," Tuvok says. "It is possible that Commander Chakotay and the others survived."  
  
Seven cocks her head to the side. "Was Starbase 87 the closest base to the Delta Quadrant?" she asks. Janeway looks at me and I clear my throat.  
  
"Actually, no," I say. "Admiral McArthur requested we dock there, but there were several stations closer."  
  
Seven nods, but I can see that she is not completely satisfied with my answer and that questions lurk just below that placid expression.  
  
"What is it?" Janeway asks sharply.  
  
"It seems peculiar to me that we would arrive at a starbase completely unsuited for a starship of Voyager's size," Seven comments. "In addition, after the length of time Voyager has been absent from the Alpha Quadrant, the welcome you received was not appropriate."  
  
`Not appropriate' is an understatement, perhaps the greatest one Seven has made in quite a while. There is silence in the room. Finally the Doctor nods.  
  
"I did think it odd that no one was interested in our experiences in the Delta Quadrant," he says. "I myself made many contributions to medicine and no one was interested in hearing about them."  
  
Janeway whirls herself around, faces us straight on, her forearms on the table, and fingers knit together. She leans forward, her expression eager.  
  
"You think there is something going on?" she asks.  
  
"It would seem likely," Tuvok says. "I did find the questioning of Commander Chakotay to be... fairly unusual in its format."  
  
"Anything else?" Janeway asks. "You were on the station the longest and had the most contact with both Commander Chakotay and Lieutenant Torres, as well as Admiral McArthur and the others."  
  
Tuvok strokes his chin with two fingers and then puts his hands down.  
  
"They did not question Commander Chakotay about his Maquis activities," Tuvok says thoughtfully.   
  
"That's odd," Harry comments.  
  
"Precisely," Tuvok says. "Rather, they questioned him mainly on Voyager with some emphasis on his relationship with you, Captain."  
  
I lift my head to look across the table; the Captain's cheeks have flushed pink and her eyes are bright, but steady.  
  
"What are you saying, Commander?" Janeway's voice is low, but carries firmly the distance between herself and Tuvok.  
  
"It seems to me that the questioning was not about the Maquis," he says. "The verdict was already decided in their case."  
  
"That's not fair!" the words burst out before I can help myself.   
  
Janeway glares at me.  
  
"That's enough, Tom," she says. "Then what was the questioning about?"  
  
"You," he says.  
  
"I already talked to Admiral McArthur about that. Apparently, my many violations of the Prime Directive were a popular subject," Janeway says. "He did offer me the Dauntless, though, in return for my cooperation regarding the Maquis."  
  
"Two contradictions," Seven observes. "They are not interested in the Maquis, but they are interested in you. They offer you a command where the General Orders specifically say that any violation of the Prime Directive could result in a loss of a command. This command is offered and you agree to remain silent about a terrorist organization which the Federation is not interested in."  
  
"Very succinctly put," Tuvok compliments the former Borg drone. She tips her head in acknowledgment.  
  
"There's more," Janeway says. "It has to do with your father, Tom."  
  
I perk up immediately. "What?"  
  
"He says that in the beginning, maybe between the years 2367 and 2369, there were some promises made to colonists living in the DMZ," she says. "Protection from the Cardassians in return for monetary compensation."  
  
"Who made those promises?" I ask.  
  
Janeway shrugs. "He wouldn't say. He does know that high-ranking Starfleet officials were involved in the conspiracy and that they were not supporters of the Maquis, but rather out for their own gain."  
  
"What happened? Were the promises kept?" Harry asks.  
  
"No," Janeway says. "Hence, the birth of the Maquis."  
  
Silence descends upon us once again. Harry suddenly becomes interested in his fingernails; Janeway's face takes on a faraway look while Seven and Tuvok both appear deep in thought.  
  
"Let me try something," I say. "Aiding the Maquis would have been a blatant violation of the Federation's stance towards the border colonists, right?"  
  
"That is correct," Tuvok nods.  
  
"And demanding money for something that was a violation in the first place, that would go against Starfleet principles, right?" I continue.  
  
"Also correct," Tuvok says.  
  
"We could be looking at a court martial," Harry realizes. "If we knew who these people were, they could stand to lose a lot."  
  
"Especially if they are high up in Starfleet and Federation officiating circles," I add.   
  
"Tuvok, Seven, I want you to investigate the destruction of the starbase," Janeway's voice is full of energy. "Tom, I'm in no hurry to get to the Dauntless. Perhaps, you could engineer a solution. Harry, give him a hand."  
  
"Aye, Captain," I exchange a look with Harry; he grins back at me.   
  
"You have your orders," Janeway says. "Dismissed."  
  
*****  
  
The settlement doesn't have a name. Apparently, when the Federation first dropped the former Maquis on Alonius Prime, assembling the prefabricated buildings, finding sources of food and energy took precedence over the naming the damn place.  
  
I damn it already because I want to go home.  
  
Home, I realize, is Voyager.  
  
But according to Anna, here on Alonius Prime in a nameless little settlement, this is home.  
  
"You'll get used to it," she says as we walk down the dirt-packed main thoroughfare. "It's hard, but you know, we don't have anywhere else to go. No one else wants us. Even after all this time, we're still pariah to ninety percent of the known universe."  
  
"That's a comforting thought," I comment. "Is it always this cold here?"  
  
"Unfortunately, yes," Anna nods. "Dack calculated that the sun shines only twenty-two percent of the time."  
  
"I don't suppose we could be rescued," I say hopefully.  
  
"Don't count on it," Anna responds. "Remember the dampening field? The Federation put it to good use. Short-range scanners won't pick us up. Life signs are completely masked. We thought about building a ship, but we don't have the right supplies and without more robust replicators, we can't replicate the parts we need. Eventually, you get used to it. Over there, that's the main meeting hall. We eat many of our meals there, actually. It's nice to spend time with each other."  
  
"I am looking forward to seeing everyone again," I admit.   
  
Anna grins. "It's nice to have you back, B'Elanna."  
  
We enter the meeting hall and I see Chakotay talking with a few of our former comrades. Henley, Jackson, Ayala, McKenzie, and Gerron are already here. Anna tugs on my arm.  
  
"Come talk to Jessup," she urges. I give her a look. "No, really, B'Elanna. Come say hello."  
  
"If you insist," I say in a low voice.  
  
Herid Jessup, a Ktarian, offers up a wide smile as we approach him.  
  
"B'Elanna Torres," he extends his hand and then his arm, enveloping me in a massive bear hug.  
  
"It's good to see you, Jessup," I say. He pushes me an arm's length away, evaluating me with his beady black eyes.  
  
"You look good," he says. "Have you lost some weight?"  
  
"A bit. The last few months haven't been exactly easy," I say.  
  
"Chakotay was telling us," Jessup replies. "I'm sorry to hear that. I guess it shouldn't surprise us that the Federation hasn't changed a bit."  
  
"We don't get much news," Anna confides. "Being cut off as we are."  
  
"I think I've had enough of politicking for a lifetime," Jessup grins. "What have you been up to, B'Elanna?"  
  
I shrug, "A bit of this and that. Seven years in the Delta Quadrant, actually."  
  
"You got married," Jessup is holding my hands and staring down at the gold band on my ring finger.   
  
"Yeah," I say uncomfortably. "I was going to tell you."  
  
Jessup drops my hand.   
  
"Things change, I understand," he says. "It's been a long time."  
  
"Anyone we know?" Anna asks.  
  
"Actually, yes," I shift from foot to foot. "Tom Paris."  
  
Anna and Jessup stare at me. I bite my lip.  
  
"Tom Paris," Jessup says finally.   
  
"Wasn't he...?" Anna's voice drifts off.  
  
"B'Elanna," Chakotay joins us, his hand lingering briefly on my shoulder. "Something wrong?"  
  
"Nothing," Jessup says. He looks at me, his expression hardening. "I find it hard to believe you married Tom Paris."  
  
"It's true," I look at Chakotay.   
  
"He betrayed us," Anna burst out.  
  
"No, it wasn't like that," I insist. "He told me all about it. Said he was captured on the mission, but he managed to save the crew. The Federation sent him to the New Zealand penal colony and he was there until Captain Janeway asked him to serve on Voyager as an observer."  
  
"Probably an excuse," Jessup says. "Never liked that guy. Always looking for the easy way out. Heavy drinker and always one for the ladies."  
  
"That's not true," I'm nearly nose to nose with Jessup now. Tom once observed that when I got angry, my cheeks flushed, my nostrils flared and my voice would crack ever so slightly. And he had said then in a softly lustful voice, his hands gentle on my face, "You're beautiful when you're angry. Impossible to resist."  
  
"I thought you had better taste," Jessup scoffs now.  
  
"Like you?" I shoot back.   
  
"Hey," Chakotay says, grabbing my arm. "It's not important, okay?   
B'Elanna's personal life shouldn't be an issue, not now."  
  
"What is this, the trademark Chakotay teamwork speech?" Jessup asks.  
  
"Your attitude certainly hasn't improved over the years," Chakotay remarks calmly. Jessup shrugs.  
  
"I have a reason to be angry," he says. "You guys had it good for seven years, living on a Federation starship instead of having to muck it out on a godforsaken planet."  
  
"Oh right," I say. "Being lost in the Delta Quadrant was a picnic. If you were poked, prodded and shot by the Hirogen for days, I wonder if you would say the same. Or maybe you should experience the joys of assimilation."  
  
"B'Elanna," Chakotay says in a warning tone. "This isn't the time."  
  
"I don't appreciate his tone," I say.   
  
"You weren't here when we needed you," Jessup says. "We were slaughtered and where were you?"  
  
"Oh hell with you," I tell him. "We did not choose to be in the Delta Quadrant. Don't you think we thought about you? Don't you think we hurt when we found out what happened? Don't trivialize our experiences, Herid, and certainly, don't blame us for not being there. We wanted to be and circumstances conspired against us. Was it fair? No, but there wasn't a single moment when we didn't want to fight with all of you for what we believed in. I'm sorry if you can't understand that."  
  
"Jessup," Chakotay says. "B'Elanna, both of you. It's been a long time since we've seen each other and we've all been through a lot. There's no need to compare stories. It's been a rough few years and let's leave it at that."  
  
Jessup and I eye each other, each daring the other to be the first to back down. Chakotay's expression is unreadable, but I know he is on the brink of exasperation. And the last thing I want to do is contribute to the stress of our current situation.  
  
"I'm sorry," I extend my hand. "I guess my temper is a bit on edge."  
  
"Some things don't change," Jessup answers. "I'm sorry too, though I did mean what I said about Tom Paris."  
  
I shrug. "He's changed, but I don't expect you to know that."  
  
"Why don't we get something to eat?" Anna jumps in. "Chakotay and B'Elanna must be starving."  
  
"You're right," I tell her. "It's been hours since we've eaten anything."  
  
"Good," Anna takes Chakotay's arm. Jessup holds me back.  
  
"I'm just looking out for you, B'Elanna," he says. "Don't take it the wrong way. We're all friends here."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Tom Paris didn't do a damn thing when he was with us. You know that too. You couldn't even stand him and now you married him? What happened? Did you get a brain transplant?"  
  
"I wouldn't expect you to understand, Jessup."  
  
His face softens a bit and he reaches out to stroke my cheek.  
  
"I'm being irrational, I know. I'm overprotective, maybe even a bit jealous. Jealous that he succeeded where I failed," Jessup says. "I just don't want to see someone I care about get hurt."  
  
I clasp my hand around Jessup's and push his away.  
  
"I know," I tell him. "And I appreciate your concern, but you don't have to worry about me."  
  
There is a moment of silence as Jessup evaluates my remark. He then smiles at me.  
  
"I really am glad to see you again," Jessup says. "Now, how about some food?"  
  
*****  
  
Even after all this time, Astrometrics manages to thrill on an atavistic level. I love gazing out at the vast expanse of star maps, each of them unique and different. When I was a boy, I would pour over the maps, memorizing galaxy after galaxy, imagining the day I would take a shuttle up there myself to see for myself.  
  
Now I stand in front of a familiar star system, noting the various constellations once used for guidance by pre-warp civilizations. A touch of a key and a second later, a replica of a fully functioning Starbase 87 spinning slowly on its axis.   
  
We are all here: Seven, Harry, Janeway and Tuvok. The Doctor, who is still attending to some minor injuries from the shock waves, has chosen not to attend this meeting.  
  
"Looks good," I tell Seven, who acknowledges my praise with a slight tilt of her head and an inscrutable expression. I'm guessing she has yet to enroll in the Doctor's self-admiration course.  
  
"It is exact in every detail," Seven says. "I have examined sensor logs leading up to the explosion and have recreated those events as precisely as possible."  
  
"I wouldn't expect anything less," I tell her.  
  
"So what happened?" Janeway's gravely voice asks from behind us.   
  
"I begin with the premise that the main reactor core did indeed experience a meltdown of phenomenal proportions," Seven says.   
  
"Good place to begin," Janeway nods approvingly. "Then what?"  
  
Tuvok takes a step forward. "In order to cause an explosion of that particular magnitude, it is necessary to superheat the reactor core. We speculate that the reaction actually began here -" Tuvok indicates a red spot on the Starbase 87 model - "in the injector relays. If the trigger is placed correctly here, it will cause a cascade reaction which would eventually result in an overload of the core."  
  
"What sort of trigger are we looking at?" Janeway queries.  
  
"Could be anything," this is from Harry who has been sitting quietly in the back. "My guess is that the phase matrix converter was overloaded, probably with a high-density supercharged substance. I would imagine that the molecular reaction was helped a bit by a pulse compression wave. Given the acceleration, the kinetic energy of the reaction caused the cascade, leading to an over pressurization of the reactor module."  
  
"A massive chemical reaction," I translate.  
  
"The starbase was in poor condition to begin with," Janeway points out. "Couldn't this explosion be a result of the damage already sustained during the Dominion War?"  
  
"Possibly," Harry says. "But I doubt it. If the core was that unstable, the base would have been inoperable. A core meltdown does not suddenly manifest itself without warning."  
  
"Explain," Janeway says. "I seemed to remember a completely opposite scenario."  
  
"The multiphasic shielding on the core would prevent such a meltdown unless it began within the injector relays," Seven says. "In which case, the shielding would crack."  
  
"What if the shielding was brittle to begin with?" I ask. "What if it was already cracking and no one noticed?"  
  
"Then the repair crews were not doing their jobs," Tuvok says.  
  
"But it's not an unreasonable hypothesis," Janeway points out.  
  
There is a moment of silence as Harry and Seven trade looks; their expressions, if communicated verbally, would indicate that they wanted the other person to talk. In the end, it's the former Borg drone who speaks.  
  
"If the shielding had cracked prior to this incident, the core would have produced a slow leak. There would have been noticeable discrepancies in energy output," Seven says.  
  
"So you agree with Harry's analysis?" Janeway asks. "There is no way this explosion could have been an accident?"  
  
"We have run several scenarios," Seven says primly. "None of them are consistent with the massive explosion we witnessed."  
  
"Humor me," Janeway says. "We have to be sure before we make accusations."  
  
"Agreed," Tuvok says.  
  
Seven takes us through several scenarios, including a textbook example of a starbase reactor core meltdown.  
  
"They could have vented the plasma," I say as I watch Starbase 87 disintegrate once again. "That would have cooled the core, right? Perhaps slowed the reaction?"  
  
"Cooling it would have slowed the reaction, yes," Harry says. "Any first-year engineer would have known that."  
  
"There are several solutions to this particular solution," Seven says. "Running coolant through the injection module is an option."  
  
"Example," Janeway orders. Seven complies and we see a more restrained explosion, which leaves the starbase crippled, but not destroyed.  
  
"The easiest way to reduce the temperature is to turn off the fusion relays," Harry points.  
  
"Rerun that scenario," Janeway says.  
  
Again, we see the results: minor explosions, but nothing the size of what we had witnessed earlier.  
  
"That's fairly easy to do," Harry says. "Turning off the fusion relays, that's not even a manual process."  
  
"This was a preventable accident," Janeway says in a low voice. "I refuse to believe they did not have people or systems available to prevent the destruction of a starbase."  
  
"It may not have been an accident," Tuvok voices the thought we have all had in the back of our minds.  
  
"For what purpose?" I can't help but ask. "It doesn't make sense to blow up a starbase, especially one that they were in the process of reconstructing?"  
  
"It would make sense if someone was trying to hide something," Janeway says. Her jaw tightens visibly. "Now we just have to find out what and who."  
  
****  
  
The meeting hall has cleared out, with the exception of Chakotay and me. We face each other across the table. Chakotay is looking down at his hands as if his cuticles are suddenly the most interesting objects in the known universe.  
  
"What is it?" I ask.  
  
Chakotay raises his head. "I don't have a good feeling about this, B'Elanna."  
  
"I'm listening."  
  
"A colony of former Maquis? It doesn't make sense."  
  
"I know," I nod. "But Anna explained it many times. There's nowhere for them to go. We're stuck here."  
  
"If I know the Captain, she's already looking for us."  
  
"If they got away."  
  
"I know they got away." Chakotay sighs. "Everything that has happened to us since our arrival in the Alpha Quadrant has been suspicious. I talked to Leo and he said that every single person here had a trial conducted in the Federation courts. We had, what? I don't even know what to call that."  
  
"What did that Admiral call it? A conversation?"  
  
"A euphemism for something else, B'Elanna, that's what that was. He was stalling."  
  
"Why? Why would he do that? You know the cards are stacked against us and I don't know what they would have to be afraid of. We have no friends, Chakotay, and our relatives are few and scattered. There are no powerful people to speak for us. The only friend we could count on was Captain Janeway and see where that connection landed us."  
  
"That's not fair. Don't take your anger out on her. She did everything she could."  
  
"It wasn't enough," I get up, my abrupt movement knocking over my bench. It crashes to the floor loudly and I trip over it, landing flat on my rear. Chakotay comes over to help me up.  
  
"Are you okay?" he asks.  
  
"Just clumsy. Thanks."  
  
Chakotay pulls me up with one smooth motion.   
  
"You should watch your step," he says. "And your mouth."  
  
"What is that supposed to mean?"  
  
"Jessup still has feelings for you, that much is obvious."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous."  
  
"I'm telling you what I see."  
  
"It was a long time ago," I twist the ring on my finger. "He'll get used to it."  
  
"I want you to be careful, B'Elanna. I don't have a good feeling about any of this."  
  
Together, we right the bench. It wobbles a bit and then we sit down.   
  
"You think the Captain is looking for us?" I ask wistfully. "You think they survived?"  
  
"I'm counting on it."  
  
Silence again. I'm contemplating an existence in which none of my friends from Voyager are alive. The thought of never seeing them again - it's as if a hand is clenching my heart - the pain is that intense.   
  
If you had asked me seven years ago if I could feel this way about Voyager and its crew, I would have laughed in your face. But in some ways, they have all grown on me. Neelix with his gentle philosophies, Harry and his goofy smile, Tuvok and his adherence to principle, Janeway's compassion and determination, Seven and her lack of sense of humor, and of course Tom and the devil in him - somehow, all of these people have managed to get under my skin.  
  
I miss them.  
  
And I don't want to remember them as cellular residue spread halfway across the Alpha Quadrant.   
  
So I silently agree with Chakotay; Voyager got away and everyone on board is safe and sound.  
  
The other option is too sterile.  
  
"It's really too cold here," I remark. "I'd hate to be here forever."  
  
"I don't suppose you could modify the dampening field, could you?"  
  
"I'd have to take a look at it," I say. "But I don't see why not. I could use a polar graviton burst to disperse the ions and that might give us a bit of time to send a message out."  
  
"Provided you could create the polar graviton burst," Chakotay says glumly. I look at him and feel a smile forming on my lips. I squeeze his knee. Chakotay glances at me sideways.  
  
"What's that for?" he asks.  
  
"For once, you're the pessimist," I tell him. "It's amusing."  
  
"I'm glad you're having fun at my expense."  
  
"You had a good idea," I say. "And the theory works. I just need to figure out a way to implement it. Let me think about it. All we need is thirty seconds."  
  
"And a communications array."  
  
"I have my communicator," I tell him. Chakotay raises an eyebrow.  
  
"I thought I would need it," I explain. "I tried to raise Tom on it once."  
  
"And?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"The communicator signal wouldn't be that strong without the booster," Chakotay points out.  
  
"Let me worry about that," I pat him on the knee again. "Where are you sleeping tonight?"  
  
"Leo suggested I stay with him."  
  
"I'm staying with Anna."  
  
We both sit in silence and then I look at Chakotay.  
  
"You're right," I tell him. "It is odd. Sharing with someone, that is. Remember?"  
  
"How can I forget? Some days we were stacked on top of each other," Chakotay says. "Damn uncomfortable. I remember sleeping on the floor once and thinking myself lucky for even having a place to sleep."  
  
"I suppose we ought to start building our own places as soon as the ground softens."  
  
He offers me the first smile I've seen from him in days.   
  
"I don't plan on it," he says. "We're getting out of here."  
  
*****  
  
Harry and I crawl through the narrow conduits that house the kilometers of warp nacelle circuitry. The space is barely wide enough for us to crawl through in a single file, dragging our tool kits behind us. The tube echoes with our voices and with other noises - hums, bangs, and clanks - attributed to starship operation.  
  
"Damn, it's hot down here," Harry says. Perspiration drips from my forehead as I grunt in agreement. Both of us left our jackets behind two junctions ago, but still, it's unbearably warm.  
  
"I hope B'Elanna forgives me for what I'm about to do," I tell Harry as I pause in front of the relevant power junction.  
  
"I'm sure she will," Harry says. We take a few moments to adjust ourselves in the corridor, our legs bent awkwardly against the opposite wall, our necks bending so we don't accidentally give ourselves concussions. We have learned, many times, the hard way how cruel a mistress Voyager can be to the physically inept.  
  
I loosen the screws and the metal panel falls to the floor with a clank. I contort my body a little more in order to open up the tool kit and remove the link coupler. A couple passes of the coupler and a circuit is irretrievably damaged. Next to me, Harry pulls out an isolinear chip and replaces it with another one.  
  
"One down, five to go," Harry says cheerfully.  
  
"Talk less, work more," I grunt.  
  
"Yes, sir," Harry answers, but he is smiling as he clips and fuses wires expertly. "Now just switch those two, Tom, and we should be in business."  
  
"Or out of business, as the case might be." I do as he asks and then scoot over another meter to start on the second panel.   
  
"You think this is going to work?" Harry asks. "If there really is a conspiracy, wouldn't someone figure out what's happening?"  
  
"I could crash land Voyager," I say. "Expertly, of course."  
  
"Of course."  
  
We work in companionable silence for another half-hour or so and then I shut my tool kit with a satisfying bang.  
  
"Now if that works," I say. "We should lose warp drive in oh, thirty seconds?"  
  
"Let's get out of here," Harry advises. "It'll get damn hot once that plasma starts venting."  
  
I wrinkle my nose, "As if it isn't hot enough already."  
  
We scramble through the conduit as fast as we possibly can. Already, the metal walls are heating up, making our progress uncomfortable.  
We drop out of the conduit into Engineering, right in front of Seven of Nine.  
  
"Your modifications were successful," she reports. "We no longer have warp capabilities. We will be forced to slow to one half-impulse."  
  
"That's good to hear," Harry says, rubbing the back of his hand across his forehead. His face is smudged and glistening with sweat. His hair stands rakishly up on end, giving him a rather mischievous look.  
  
"Lieutenant Paris, the Captain would like to see you," Seven says.  
  
I look first at Harry and then Seven. Seven, not known for experiencing or acknowledging discomfort, looks the other way.  
  
"Do you know why?" I ask.  
  
Seven fidgets again but says in that clear, monotone voice of hers,   
"She did not inform me of her reason."  
  
"Thanks," I say.   
  
I'm on my way to the Bridge when Janeway comms me.  
  
"Janeway to Paris." Her voice betrays no emotion, no hint of what might be coming. For all I know, there might be another promotion waiting for me or she might be ready to light into me for some as of yet unacknowledged misdemeanor. Or it could be B'Elanna...  
  
"Paris here."  
  
"I need to see you in my Ready Room."  
  
"Already on my way."  
  
"Good."  
  
When I enter the Bridge, Janeway nods to Tuvok and indicates her Ready Room. I follow her in, and watch as she sits behind her desk, obviously troubled. She folds her hands in front of her and leans slightly forward.  
  
"Tom," she says, her voice cracking slightly.  
  
"Something wrong?" I ask easily.   
  
"I don't know how to tell you this," she says.  
  
"Tell me what?" I try not to panic, but the very tone of her voice gives me heart palpitations.  
  
"The casualty lists finally came out," Janeway sits and motions for me to take the seat in front of her. "Tom, I'm sorry."  
  
"What?" I ask. My heart is pounding hard enough to jump out of my ribcage. Breathe, Tom, breathe. I inhale deeply and then I nod to Janeway. "Okay, okay."  
  
She pushes a PADD towards me.  
  
"Your father is presumed dead, Tom."  
  
The mustard colored type seems unusually bright against the black background. Some of the words towards the edge of the PADD are blurred, running off into the margins - unreadable.  
  
"Admiral Owen Paris, presumed dead," I read it out-loud. Janeway has already turned away, but I can see her jaw tighten.   
  
"Are you all right, Tom?"  
  
I touch the words with my fingers. In most cases, my thumb obliterates the stark sans serif text.   
  
"Yeah," I say finally.   
  
"Sure?"  
  
I don't have the words I need. So many times, I'm quick with the joke, always racing to be the first one to the punch line. This time, I have nothing to say. The closest approximation to how I feel is the time when Bobby Chandler kicked me in the stomach when I was nine years old. I remember lying in a fetal position on the soccer field, clutching at my abdomen, rivers of tears pouring from my eyes. My father had been there that day and he dried my eyes and carried me off the field.  
  
"You played the game well, son," my father said that day. "But you need to stick up for yourself. You need to fight like a man. I'm not always going to be able to be there for you."  
  
That moment with my father had been one of the few good ones we had shared. The years that followed had been rebellious and headstrong, with the two of us clashing on more occasions than I could count. The problem was evident: he wanted a son who would follow in his footsteps and I wanted a father who could give me the support I needed.  
  
In retrospect, the animosity which existed between my father and I seems relatively petty. Whatever our differences, I loved - love - him, and I never had the chance to tell him.  
  
"Tom," the Captain says. "If you need time, I understand."  
  
"No," I tell her clearly. "I, I need to do something, anything."  
  
"I know you and your father did not always see eye to eye, Tom, but he was a good man. He had some good things to say about you and I know he was proud of you."  
  
"I'm sure."  
  
"Please," she reaches across the table. "Don't shut us out now, Tom. You need us."  
  
"I'm not," I tell her. I look down at the PADD. "What about B'Elanna?"  
  
Janeway shrugs. "Presumed missing, I imagine."  
  
"What does that mean?" my voice raises in frustration. "Presumed missing?"  
  
"There is a record of Chakotay and B'Elanna's release from the brig about twenty minutes before the explosion," Janeway says. "They may have been evacuated."  
  
"Or not."  
  
"Tom."  
  
"Sorry," I hold up a hand. "I just want answers, Captain."  
  
"I know," her voice is soft and sympathetic. "I understand."  
  
Janeway gets up and rounds the corner of the desk. She sits on the edge, almost in front of me. She lifts my chin with her hand.  
  
"We haven't seen eye to eye lately, Tom," she says. "But if you need to talk about this, I'm here."  
  
"Thank you. I appreciate that."  
  
"It's all right to feel some kind of emotion."  
  
I look down at the PADD, now growing moist from my sweaty palms.  
  
"I was looking forward to seeing him again," I tell her. "I wanted to show him that I'd changed, that I'd become more responsible - responsible enough to pilot a starship anyway. I wanted him to be proud of me."  
  
"He was, Tom, you have to believe me," Janeway says earnestly. "He did want to see you. Circumstances conspired against you, but I think he would be pleased with you. Proud, even."  
  
I take a deep breath.  
  
"I need to know about B'Elanna," I tell her. "I can't sit here. I need to keep busy."  
  
"I understand."  
  
"If she's out there, I have to find her."  
  
"We will find them, Tom, don't worry."  
  
"I don't want it to be too late, Captain. Not this time."  
  
Janeway nods, her expression growing cloudy. "I know, Tom."  
  
I'm halfway to the door, when I turn back to look at the Captain. She is standing in front of the window, one hand against the wall as if to support herself.   
  
For the first time in months, I see her differently, human, frail and emotional like the rest of us. Misguided judgment aside, she still bleeds and cries as I do.   
  
"Captain?"  
  
"What is it, Tom?"  
  
"Was it... awful?"  
  
"What?" her voice is uncommonly sharp.   
  
"The Borg cube. Was it as terrifying to you as it was to B'Elanna?"  
  
"Why do you ask?"  
  
"I want to know."  
  
Janeway sighs, turns to face me, still leaning back against the wall. She crosses her arms across her chest and nods.  
  
"It doesn't matter, Tom," she says. "It's over now."  
  
"Do you regret anything at all?" I ask, my voice again reaching into   
the attic of pitches. "I know that I have a lengthy list of things I'd like to do over. Don't you?"  
  
"Tom," she says. "I can't have this conversation right now. The horse isn't getting up, Lieutenant."  
  
There is finality to Janeway's voice and she emphasizes her point by turning her back to me.  
  
"Your father is dead, Tom," she says in a low voice. "That is one truth you can't run away from."  
  
Your father is dead.  
  
Your father is dead.  
  
Your father is dead.  
  
"Oh God," I whisper. "Oh my God."  
  
*****  
  
"You can have the bed," Anna says, handing me a pair of flannel pajamas. "I'll bunk out on the sofa."  
  
"Are you sure?" I ask. "I can sleep out there."  
  
"I wouldn't feel right about it," Anna answers. "Uh, clean towels in this drawer and there's an extra blanket in the closet. It gets cold here at night - amazingly cold, sometimes, and the heat generators cannot compensate. I know how cold you get, so I just want you to be prepared."  
  
"I'm sure I'll be fine."  
  
"You'll let me know if you need anything?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
"Don't be shy, please."  
  
"I won't be."  
  
Anna leaves the room, closing the door behind her. I strip off my clothes, shivering slightly as I hurriedly pull on the pajamas. The pajamas are blue.  
  
Blue, like Tom's pajamas.  
  
I sit on the edge of the bed, hunched over as an unfamiliar ache invades my stomach, spreading up through my ribcage.   
  
Tom.   
  
I didn't think I'd miss him.  
  
Didn't think I'd need him.  
  
I hate it when I'm wrong.  
  
Those blue pajamas. The first time I saw him wearing them, Tom was half-asleep, and he rolled over sleepily when I curled up on the bed next to him.  
  
"B'Elanna?" he whispered.  
  
"Hi."  
  
"Didn't think you were coming."  
  
"Got off early," I whispered. I touched his cheek with my fingers, and then let my fingers run down his jaw, neck, shoulder. "I see you weren't expecting me."  
  
He pulled my head down, his lips grazing my forehead and then more, hungrily, my lips.  
  
"I'm glad you're here."  
  
I started unbuttoning his shirt. "Nice color. New?"  
  
"Replicated them yesterday. The other ones were... unusable."  
  
Unusable because I had ripped them, unwittingly, in a moment of aggressive passion. Had leaped on him, bitten his neck, ignored his "B'Elanna!" before pushing him down onto the bed, unwilling to wait a moment more.  
  
"I like them," I leaned over, planting a line of kisses down his chest. His fingers tangled in my hair, his big hand splayed on my back. "Nice choice."  
  
He grunted as my fingers moved beneath the elastic waistband.   
  
"But I like what's under them better," I whispered. Tom groaned, his grip on my upper arm tightening as my fingers moved gradually   
downward.  
  
"B'Elanna?"  
  
I jump at the sound of Anna's voice.  
  
"Are you okay?" she asks, coming in. "Sorry to bother you, but I wanted to know if you needed a glass of milk or something else before bed."  
  
"No," I answer hoarsely.  
  
Anna stares down at me, her gray-blue eyes large with concern.   
  
"You look sick," she says.   
  
"It's nothing."  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Positive," I straighten and lean back to turn down the comforter.   
"Thanks, though."  
  
"You'll get used to it," Anna says for the millionth time. "I promise. You forget about old allegiances, old relationships - you build new ones."  
  
"I don't intend to," I tell her furiously. "I'm not planning to stay here."  
  
"Don't fight it, B'Elanna, it just makes things worse."  
  
I scoot under the covers, rolling over onto my side purposely to avoid looking at Anna. She sighs audibly.  
  
"He doesn't know how lucky he is," she says quietly. "You're throwing   
yourself away on Tom Paris, B'Elanna. Herid, he adores you, and he would take care of you."  
  
"I don't need anyone to take care of me," my temper flares up and I sit up. "And I'm not interested in Herid Jessup or anyone else for that matter. I've made a commitment, Anna, and I intend to honor that commitment."  
  
"You make it sound like a business arrangement."   
  
"I don't expect you to understand," I tell her. "You don't know Tom and you don't know anything about what we've - I've - been through in the last seven years. You, Herid, the others, you wouldn't say things like that if you knew."   
  
Anna sits on the side of the bed, covering my hand with hers.  
  
"Look, I only want what's best for you and I'm sorry we keep covering the same ground over and over. I want you to understand that I'm only looking out for you."  
  
"Then you'll help me get out of here," I say softly. Anna looks off into the distance.  
  
"There are some things you just have to accept," she says. "You think your Tom Paris can protect you when people find out you were a former Maquis fighter? I take that back. You are Maquis, you always will be. In the Federation's eyes, that will never change."  
  
"Is that enough for you?"  
  
Anna shakes her head.   
  
"No," she says softly. "I just accepted it because... because I don't have any other options."  
  
"I thought so," I roll over onto my back. "Anna, you have to help me. It's good to see everyone here again. I never thought that I would any of you, but my life has changed, diverged from yours, and I can't live like a prisoner. I know what you say about having freedom here, but that's not true."  
  
"The Federation will hunt you down if you ever leave here."  
  
"That doesn't matter."  
  
Anna pats my hand. "Think about it, B'Elanna. Seriously. And whatever   
you decide, I will support you. You helped me once when I needed a friend, and I'll do the same for you."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Anna gets up and leaves, softly shutting the door behind her.   
  
I stretch out, letting the tension ease from my tight muscles. I roll over, stare out at the silhouette of trees visible through the windows.  
  
A chill hangs in the air, working its way beneath my skin and down to the bones.  
  
The bed is large.  
  
Empty. Cold.  
  
I have slept alone before, but not like this, never like this.   
  
It was always something. His shift, my shift. Away missions, petty arguments, differing plans or sometimes, too tired to even think about making the trip to the other's quarters.  
  
But I knew, always knew, that he would be back, that I would be back.   
  
I wrap my arms around the other pillow, knowing that cotton and feathers are poor substitutes for a warm body.  
  
****  
  
It's amazing where you find yourself when you're looking for comfort.  
  
I'll be honest; I never willingly seek comfort. Hell, I love to suffer. If I could, I would hold everything inside of me, letting problems fester until acidity burned through my stomach lining.  
  
It's easier to be quiet than to let someone else in.  
  
So I end up here, on the holodeck, mourning a man whom I never really knew.   
  
I could make a list about my father, a list of adjectives, and that wouldn't help.   
  
Authoritative. Stern. Cold. Unforgiving. Aggressive. Dedicated. Proud. Arrogant.  
  
My heart wants to believe that he did love me, did care for me; Janeway said that he did.   
  
And now, I will never know.  
  
I didn't really think, when I picked the program. My fingers punched in the code absently and I was here, suddenly, on the beaches of St. Thomas, Virgin Islands - B'Elanna's one and only attempt at creating a holodeck fantasy world for the two of us.  
  
B'Elanna.  
  
Oh God, B'Elanna.  
  
Presumed missing.  
  
We've been in this situation before. Back when she and Harry were missing, yeah, I ached for them then. I had spent hours just staring out of the windows, wondering where in space were B'Elanna Torres and Harry Kim. And even when I knew I should give up, when the Captain and Chakotay had all but given up, I couldn't.  
  
I knew they were out there.  
  
Stories, even ones staring Tom Paris, have happy endings. I imagine I'm going to ride off into the sunset, with B'Elanna of course, and we'll have our beautiful castle up on a mountain. Night will bleed into day, sun melting and fading with each passing moment; and we would be there, to admire it all.  
  
Of course, that's the story I tell myself.   
  
And some days, I believe that "happily ever after" will happen.  
  
It's just a matter of believing and caring enough.  
  
I'm sitting about five or six meters from the water, my pant cuffs rolled up past the ankle, my boots and socks to the side.  
  
The doors swish open behind me but I don't turn.  
  
"Interesting," Harry says. "I thought I'd find you here, but didn't quite think I'd find you at the beach."  
  
"I wanted to be somewhere warm."  
  
"Is that right?" Harry drags a lawn chair over to me. "This is B'Elanna's program, isn't it?"  
  
"Yeah, how do you know?"  
  
"She showed it to me when she was designing it. She needed help with some of the parameters," he says. "It's a great program, really authentic."  
  
"Take your shoes off," I say. "It's okay to get sand between your toes."  
  
"I'm going on duty in twenty minutes."  
  
I pull my knees up my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs. Harry places a light hand on my shoulder. A slight squeeze and then he pulls his hand away.  
  
"You okay? You walked off the Bridge, almost as if you'd seen a ghost."  
  
"I suppose the Captain told you."  
  
"She told all of us. Are you all right?"  
  
"Fine."  
  
"This isn't the time to be brave, Tom."  
  
I release my legs, stretch them in front of me, and lean back on my hands. The wind is soft, warm, a breath upon my sweaty skin.  
  
"It's okay to feel something," Harry continues. "Your father is dead."  
  
"You don't have to tell me, I know."  
  
"Well?"  
  
"What do you want?"  
  
"Maybe some emotion?" Harry asks. "Maybe some indication that you care beneath all of that bravado? Are you even alive in there?"  
  
I hold out my hand. "Take my pulse."  
  
"I don't know why I try," Harry says. "You're my friend and I care about you, care about what happens to you, even if you don't."  
  
I pick up a handful of sand and let it flow between my fingers.   
  
"I appreciate it, Harry. Really. I just can't talk about it right now."  
  
"The way you left, Tom, I wasn't sure that you were going to be okay."  
  
"I'm fine," I repeat. "Everything is fine."  
  
"Great."  
  
Harry gets up. I only look up when I sense Harry is really leaving.  
  
"Harry?"  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"I don't know what to say because I don't know what to feel."  
  
"That's all right."  
  
"What do you do when your father dies?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"It's not real, Harry. In some ways, I feel like we're still in the Delta Quadrant and that opportunities to talk to him still exist."  
  
"It's only been an hour, Tom. Let it sink in."  
  
"I don't want it to sink in!" I slam my fist into the palm of my right hand. "Harry, it wasn't supposed to happen like this."  
  
"Hey!" Harry's back at my side, his wide face etched with concern. His hair lops crazily over his brow, like it always does when he is stressed. He gives me a hand and I pull myself up.   
  
"It's okay, Tom."  
  
"There were things I wanted to say," I say. "Things I wanted to know."  
  
"I know."  
  
The sun is a horizontal sliver in the distance, its golden hues running into lavender and periwinkle. The waves lap gently at the beach, each time inching closer to where we stand.  
  
"High tide," I say.  
  
"Looks like it."  
  
More silence; Harry shifts from foot to foot.  
  
"What?" I turn to face him.   
  
"You're a mess," Harry observes. "I hope you don't plan to track sand all over the ship. Commander Chakotay had the carpets cleaned."  
  
I laugh. So like Harry to be so fastidious, so anally neat and conscientious. As it is, he is already inspecting his uniform for traces of sand.  
  
"Wasn't planning on it," I say.  
  
"I'm due on the Bridge," he says. "If you need to talk, I'm here for you."  
  
His voice is so earnest, so filled with care and a drop of anxiety, that I can't help but feel a bit of tenderness for my friend; he means well even if I don't want to be comforted.  
  
"I appreciate that."  
  
With Harry gone, I sit myself on the edge of the lawn chair.  
  
Memories blur together, fading and phasing into each other, colliding into a patchwork of crazy images. My father taking me to the aerospace museum, my father teaching me to how to ride a bicycle, my father helping me with homework, my father talking about Starfleet...  
  
I cover my face with my hands and inhale deeply. My shoulders hunch up and then lower as I exhale.  
  
"It's all right, Tom," I say out loud. "It's all right.  
  
****  
  
I lie in bed, my eyes closed against the sunlight streaming mercilessly into the room. I hear Anna in the other room, moving around, but I don't have the effort to leave my warm bed. I curl up tighter into a ball, wrapping myself around the pillow.  
  
I don't know what I'm waiting for.  
  
Seems like I'm perpetually waiting.  
  
Waiting for my father who never came back.  
  
Waiting for my mother to love me back.  
  
Waiting for Chakotay to look at me the way I would sometimes catch him looking at Seska, and then later, Janeway.  
  
Waiting for Tom to care for me the way I cared for him.  
  
Waiting to be a priority for someone, anyone.  
  
When I asked Tom to marry me, I was issuing a challenge. For three years, I had let him do the things he wanted to do, let him spend hours in that Fair Haven program or the Captain Proton program or working on that damned car of his.  
  
Once, he asked me to come to Fair Haven with him and he even brought the costume: a maroon calico-patterned dress, complete with corset, parasol and petticoats. He sat on the edge of the bed as I yanked on the stiff black boots that completed the outfit.  
  
"How do I fasten these?" I demanded, staring down at the metal buckles.  
  
"With this," Tom handed me a thin metal object with a hook at the end of it. "It's called a buttonhook."  
  
I struggled for a bit and then hurled the contraption across the room.  
  
"I'm an engineer," I said crossly. "Not some fashion model from the 1800s."  
  
"Humor me." Tom retrieved the buttonhook. "Here, let me do those for you."  
  
He expertly fastened my boots and then helped me to my feet.  
  
"You look cute," Tom said. He brushed my hair behind my ears and then kissed me lightly.  
  
"This better be worth it," I told him. "The shoes hurt."  
  
"You'll love it."  
  
We walked down to the holosuite together and I was profoundly annoyed by my hoop skirts knocking against the corridor walls. In fact, there was barely enough room in the turbolift for Tom, me   
and the skirt.  
  
"For what it's worth, thank you," Tom reached over and grabbed my hand, squeezing it tightly.   
  
"Thank you for what?"  
  
"For coming with me," he hesitated. "I know you wanted to work on that new shielding alignment project, and this puts you off schedule. So, thank you."  
  
"You're welcome."  
  
I admit; I saw the genius in Fair Haven, saw the carefully crafted details from the smell of freshly turned earth to the buttons on Miss Molly's dress, and I could see, from the energy in his step, that Tom was perfectly and wonderfully at ease here. He grabbed my arm, pulling me in all directions, gesturing wildly, and his voice would rise and fall in excitement every time he noticed something, like the geraniums blooming outside the church or the rank smell of fermenting hops.   
  
There was a sparkle in his eyes, a joy that I had not noticed before. And when he was staring at the bartender, Michael Sullivan, I suddenly became aware of Tom's sense of accomplishment, his proprietary feelings towards this particular program. With each gulp of beer, Tom seemed to be proclaiming, with body language and facial expressions, "I made this, this is mine."  
  
And even when the music started and Tom led me out onto the narrow dance floor, his arms securely around my waist, I got the feeling that it didn't matter who Tom was dancing with that night; I could be Miss Molly and he wouldn't know the difference.  
  
We spent the night, or part of it, in Fair Haven, at the hotel above Michael Sullivan's bar. Tom undressed me with an expertise that both thrilled and shocked me; his cool fingertips ran down my spinal cord as he slowly pushed the dress off of my shoulders. I stood there, in petticoats and boots, feeling woefully unclothed. My mind flashed back to the image of Tom fastening my stiff, black leather boots expertly, and more importantly, the skill with which he wielded that confounded buttonhook.  
  
"Have you done this before?" my voice trembled in anticipation of his response. Tom's fingers, working the strings of the corset loose, stopped.  
  
"What are you talking about?" he asked. His voice sounded distant, very far away, and it made me wonder if I really wanted to hear his answer.  
  
"Nothing."  
  
A few moments more and then he released my body from the offending garment. I took in a deep breath, and then Tom's hands were against my stomach and then moving up to breasts and finally, he turned me around so that I was facing him.  
  
"Isn't this perfect?" he whispered and then his lips claimed mine.   
  
Tom loved me that night, I'm sure of it.  
  
I didn't go back to Fair Haven after that one time, but Tom, Harry and the Captain continued to go. Other crewmembers, including Seven, would visit from time to time, but Tom never asked me again and I never volunteered.   
  
Sometimes, when Tom was working on the Camaro, I'd sit on a lopsided stool and watch him. He would talk about concepts I dimly understood - catalytic converter, fuel gauges - while my eyes would glaze over. Sometimes, we would cuddle in the back of the car and invariably, his eyes would meet mine, our lips would glue together, and our bodies would join; and just like so many times before, we would not talk. There were only brief words, phrases - "More," "Harder," "That's right," "Please."  
  
As for the Captain Proton simulation, he only asked me to come once. I reviewed the storyline for that day and got dressed. On my way to the holodeck though, I caught a glimpse of Jenny and Megan Delaney, both dressed in form fitting black leather; their outfits left nothing, from curves to the length of leg, to imagination. They were laughing and talking about a previous Captain Proton adventure where Jenny's character had had Captain Proton.  
  
"He does kiss wonderfully, doesn't he?" Jenny giggled.   
  
"Tom, you mean? Or Harry?" Megan asked.  
  
"Tom, of course," Jenny replied as the two of them entered the turbolift.  
  
I didn't need to know more. I went back to my quarters, put my uniform back on and headed to Engineering.  
  
Tom never asked why I didn't come and painfully, it occurred to me that he had not missed me.   
  
Had not missed me because he had enjoyed the company of the leather encased Delaney Twins.  
  
Lest it seem like Tom and I were completely at odds with each other, we did have our good times, truly we did. It would be wrong to say otherwise.   
  
I think our moments of true synergy were on the Delta Flyer; Tom loved that little ship, truly did, and it was an enormous sacrifice for him to give it up during our little trip over to the Borg cube. When it came to the Flyer, it was always, "B'Elanna, what do you think about...?" or "B'Elanna, is it possible...?"   
  
And when he forgot about dinner because he was busy saving the world in the Captain Proton universe, I bit my lip, blinked several times, and then put my tray away, knowing that that this episode of forgetfulness symbolized Tom's nature - unreliable and single-minded. Sometimes, he would remember that he had stood me up and would arrive bearing roses; other times, he would crawl into bed with me, pleading in that soft, seductive voice of his until I gave in.  
  
The times when he did not remember, that was what wounded the most. I would lie in bed, wondering if he was coming, or I would throw myself into the most terrible of romance novels because I could not face going out, knowing that the crew would look at me knowingly and say in their soft, pitying tones: "Tom forgot... again."  
  
There wasn't a moment when I didn't love Tom. And it didn't necessarily bother me when I knew he was being insensitive or remote, cutting himself off from me and hiding what he should have been sharing.  
  
Maybe I should have said something, but I was so afraid of losing Tom, so afraid that one cross word from me would send him back into the arms of the Delaney twins or some holographic beauty, that I kept my jealousy from ever taking verbal form.  
  
So I said nothing and hoped, desperately, that he would see me, love me, the way I did him.  
  
The intensity of my feelings for him scared me on occasion, sometimes knocking me right off of my feet, and forcing me to turn away from him; I knew it was wrong to shut him out, but I couldn't help myself.  
  
And when he would pilot the Delta Flyer, or walk the streets of Fair Haven, there was this expression on his face - one of utter contentment - and I never saw him look at me quite the same way.  
  
One night, maybe a day or two before I left for the Borg cube, I watched Tom sleep. He was on his side, his body facing mine, face flushed slightly. His hair was rumpled and the top two buttons of his shirt had come undone. I smoothed away the hair from his brow, feeling a slight dampness on my palm and then very gently, buttoned up his shirt. I leaned over and kissed his cheek lightly.  
  
"I love you," I whispered.  
  
I said those words even though I knew he wouldn't say them back to me.  
  
I didn't know what he would say when I proposed, didn't know if he would agree; I saw the doubt in his eyes and wondered if I had been wrong all along. Maybe this was all a game to Tom. Maybe it was just sex and I, I just happened to be convenient.  
  
But he said yes.  
  
That moment, that singular moment, changed everything. We were stuck with each other; he with my engines and schematics, and I with his Fair Haven program.  
  
In sickness and health, in richer or poorer, 'til the Federation do us part.  
  
The sunlight presses against my eyelids and I reluctantly open them, finally ready to face the day. I roll onto my back, and a second later, Anna comes in.  
  
"Good morning," she says cheerfully. "I brought you a sweater; it's cold today."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Sleep well?"  
  
"Yes, thank you."  
  
"No need to thank me, B'Elanna," Anna says. "We'll be here a long time and the gratitude routine will get repetitious after a while."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"No need to apologize. Listen, I'm going to go down to the meeting hall and get some breakfast. You can join us there when you're ready. Shower is through that door, if you need to. I'll warn you though, the hot water tends to run cold after more than five or six minutes."  
  
"I won't need more time than that."  
  
"All right. I'll see you in a bit."  
  
I sit up, swing my legs over to the side of the bed and walk to the windows; already, the colony is bustling with activity. There is purpose and energy to movements, a briskness and a lightness of step that perplexes and satisfies me both.   
  
I let the curtain fall and pick up the clothes Anna left for me on the dresser. The shower is small, barely big enough to turn around in, but the pressure feels good against my skin and the water warms me.  
  
When I last saw Tom, he was fighting with a Starfleet security guard; he wanted to see me, that much I could understand. And I watched as they dragged him unceremoniously out of the room, but not before I caught the last words he had for me.  
  
I love you, he mouthed.  
  
The water turns tepid, just as Anna predicted. I linger beneath the cooling water for only a moment more before turning off the shower.  
  
I love you, he said.  
  
I wrap myself in a towel.   
  
It's amazing how three one-syllable words can make all of those things - those little irritants - that bothered me about Tom disappear.  
  
I had always suspected, but had never been sure.  
  
And now, now I know.  
  
****  
  
Seven has spent the last twelve hours in Astrometrics, long enough to bring her own pup tent and sleeping bag, according to the Doctor who is put off sufficiently by Seven's stubbornness in not regenerating.  
  
I enter Astrometrics, note that Seven is running explosions, dozens of them at once, and they fill the room with an orange-red glow.  
  
Damn if she isn't a pyromaniac.  
  
It is late, nearly 0300 hours and sleep doesn't come easily. I tried, but my eyes would flutter open and once again, I would be staring up at that damned paneled ceiling.  
  
You can feel sorry for yourself only for so long before the self-pity becomes suffocating and stomach turning.  
  
I thought about the Mess Hall or the Bridge - Harry's on duty tonight - but not having the desire to see or hear muted expressions of sympathy, I head straight for the Ice Queen's lair.  
Seven barely turns at my entrance, so intent is she on the continuous explosions of the late, dearly lamented Starbase 87.   
  
I notice something different this time though - Voyager is included as a blip on the map as are twenty or thirty assorted spacecraft of varying classes and alien configuration.  
  
"Having fun?" I ask casually.  
  
Seven eyes me narrowly.  
  
"Lieutenant. Your arrival is... unexpected."  
  
"Not an unwelcome though, I hope."  
  
"I do not have an opinion."  
  
I sigh. Of course she has an opinion, but thanks to her lessons with the good Doctor, Seven has managed to assimilate tact as her latest accomplishment. Truly, to be free from that biting tongue of hers and that superior attitude, is on the same level as a revelation.  
  
"The Doctor is worried about you," I persist. "He says you will harm yourself if you do not regenerate soon."  
  
"This is not the time to regenerate."  
  
I stand about two meters away from Seven, hands behind my back.  
  
"What are you doing?" I ask.  
  
"I am conducting an investigation," she says.  
  
"It's an investigation now?" I ask. "Who says? Tuvok?"  
  
"It is suspicious."  
  
"What?"  
  
"The destruction of a starbase is inherently suspicious."  
  
"So you're doing this on your own?" I ask.  
  
"Don't you want to find out what happened?" she asks. "I am sorry about your father."  
  
I sigh heavily, lean forward onto the railing that separates us from the view screen.   
  
"It's all right," I say.  
  
"I do not imagine it is all right," Seven says. "You have lost a parent. My research on individuals leads me to believe that one becomes extremely attached to a parent and that the loss of parent is very traumatic. I believe, I believe Annika missed her parents greatly at first."  
  
There is kindness in Seven's voice, a kindness I do not want to acknowledge or accept. I clench the railing a bit tighter and watch as Starbase 87 explodes yet again, and those many space vessels fly off in different directions, some in a desperate but futile attempt to out-run the shock waves. The debris floats in space and then the screen is refreshed and Starbase 87, in all of its decrepit glory, is back.  
  
"Let me see what you are doing," I say. I peer on her console and note the lines of trajectory she is programming. "Ah, displacement waves."  
  
"Precisely," Seven's voice is crisp. "Providing that the shuttle craft survived the explosion, I'm plotting their most likely course, given the force of the radiating displacement waves. The magnitude of the waves will have an impact-"  
  
"Any good pilot knows that," I cut in. "Some of these ships never stood a chance; there was no way to out-run the explosion."  
  
"According to the latest reports, out of thirty ships, Voyager included, twenty-two ships survived the explosion," Seven says. "The other eight are unaccounted for."  
  
"Those are good odds," I say.  
  
"Some ships were asked to leave approximately three hours prior to the explosion," Seven hands me a PADD. "Here are the orders. These are all Federation allied races."  
  
"I see," I scroll down a bit further. "Merchants and some cargo and supply ships. Vulcan, one Klingon, three Cardassian... they were lucky, weren't they?"  
  
"That is one way of stating the situation," Seven says. "But I believe someone knew that the explosion was imminent and hence asked them to depart."  
  
"You're gaining some good old-fashioned human mistrust," I say. "I didn't know the Doctor added that to the curriculum."  
  
"I do not believe that mistrust, or suspicion, is a good trait."  
  
"It's not a bad characteristic to have. I, myself, possess a healthy dose of suspicion and mistrust. That's what's kept me alive all of these years. That and a good sense of cynicism," I say.   
  
"This conversation is irrelevant to my investigation."  
  
"Point taken," I grin. I look up at the screen. "Which ship were B'Elanna and Chakotay on?"  
  
"Unknown," Seven's fingers tap madly across the console and a second later, an order appears on the screen. "An order was issued sixty minutes prior to the explosion to evacuate all prisoners. Since this was the final backup, I do not have a record of whether Commander Chakotay, Lieutenant Torres and the others were actually released."  
  
"It's Starfleet," I say. "They follow orders. Trust me on this one. You said eight ships were unaccounted for. So those ships were either destroyed or were diverted. Anything in the database you can pull on that?"  
  
"The missing ships include the Yah'Vong, Rice, Travis, Hephaestus, Intrepid, Sam Houston, Bowie and the Atalanta," Sevens says.   
  
I quickly tap into the database and bring up all reports on ship activity in the sector; the latest reports include more casualty lists and a newly formed missing persons list.  
  
It is significant to me that Chakotay, B'Elanna and the others are not noted on either list. I voice this thought to Seven.  
  
"Why would that be suspicious?" she asks.  
  
"Because someone somewhere knows that they are not dead and they are not missing," I say with certainty. "Who asked for them to be released?"  
  
"Unknown," Seven brings the release order back up on the screen. "There is no name."  
  
"But there is a routing number," I point. "Follow that data stream backwards. It may have expired already, but it's worth a chance to see if we can't recover the data."  
  
Five minutes pass and then the computer brings up a series of records onto the screen. Behind us, the doors open.  
  
"Any progress?" Janeway asks.  
  
"Some," Seven says. "Nothing of significance."  
  
"I had trouble sleeping. Figured I might try to get some work done instead of trying to count sheep," Janeway pauses long enough to gesture at the screen. "Who is this?"  
  
She is holding a mug of steaming coffee in her hand and I smile; most people, stricken with insomnia, would turn to hot milk, but not Kathryn Janeway; only the finest French Roast will do for her.  
  
"Lieutenant Eric Sullivan," I nod at the image. "Starfleet security. Graduated the Academy in 2372 - with full honors, if I may add - and apparently, until three days ago, had an exemplary service record."  
  
"Why the interest?"  
  
"Because he issued the order to release Chakotay, B'Elanna and the other Maquis from prison sixty minutes prior to the explosion," I explain. "But what's more interesting is that Sullivan was never on Starbase 87. According to this file, he was severely wounded in a training skirmish and died of those injuries three days ago."  
  
"Are you sure we have the right man?"  
  
"The routing data leads back to the terminal assigned to Lieutenant Sullivan," Seven says. "The encryption subroutine is an exact duplicate of the one on file. There is no mistake."  
  
"So we have a dead man issuing orders?" Janeway asks.  
  
"Apparently so. It's a neat trick, if you want my opinion," I put in.  
  
The three of us stare at Sullivan and his neatly white-typed biography next to his picture. Married 2374 to one Martha Ambrose, father to Jacob, born 2378, assigned to current position in late 2378. He is - was - a good-looking man, athletic-build, dark-skinned, full head of hair and perfect teeth. He was probably good at poker, and given his background, had some experience with holodeck programming. He smiles back at us. Next to me, Janeway shivers.  
  
"Find out everything," she orders. "Keep me informed."  
  
Seven and I nod; I suppose I'll need a sleeping bag also.  
  
****  
  
The third day on Alonius Prime dawns like all others - gray and utterly dismal.  
  
I hate it here.  
  
It's almost as dreary as Kessik.  
  
Silvery frost covers the ground as I make my way to the meeting hall. The air is brisk, the type that burns your lungs when you inhale, but the freshness of it is something I appreciate after seven years of breathing recycled oxygen.  
  
Low, modular buildings - all of them single story - line either side of the packed dirt path.   
  
One or two even have small porches in the front, and most have some kind of shrubbery (now brown from the cold) on either side of the door. There are touches of home sweet home too - curtains at windows, tools lying in the yard, decorations on the door.  
  
The neatness of this settlement, the very nature of it, gives a semblance of normalcy. For some reason, it is difficult to imagine my Maquis comrades giving up their arms and fierce personalities in exchange for some land and a few gardening tools. Yet their little attempts to make this forced resettlement more bearable are soothing. It is a curious but settling, sensation - one of comfort, of peace - a feeling, that at this particular moment, very welcome.  
  
I recall Tom's fantasy of a house of his own, one that he would design and build from foundation to ceiling. Once you pour the cement, that's it - you have decided to stay. And then the frame is assembled, and sheetrock is hammered to the wooden beams. Soon, the house takes shape and you move in to begin this new life of yours, starting fresh from the placement of furniture to the memories you will make there.  
  
A house is permanent, built to withstand almost anything. More than that, it belongs to you and you belong to it.  
  
You belong.  
  
More than anything, I want to be able to put my bag down in a hallway and know that no one will move it, and more importantly, no one will ask me to leave.  
It is not such a bad thought to begin anew and Kahless knows, there is so much I regret, so much I want to forget.   
  
When I see Tom next, I will agree to the new house; I will accept his dreams, pleasures and wishes, and embrace them - and him - to my heart.   
  
The sudden image of Tom - the way I like to remember him - hair windswept, lips turned up cockily, his eyes sweeping my body, makes me smile, and makes the distance to the meeting hall seem much shorter.  
  
I ascend the three steps to the door, pause for a moment, my hand on the railing. For a moment,   
I'm absolutely terrified.  
  
If I go in that door, they will be there.  
  
They - the friends, companions, family - whom I mourned mostly in silence for years.  
They are the survivors; their blood pulsating through arteries and veins, lips forming words, chests rising and falling with each breath.  
  
Alive.  
  
I can imagine the conversations with no effort because we seem to rehash the same dialogue over and over. We will talk about Voyager, talk about the Delta Quadrant. Chakotay will grow misty-eyed, his gaze focusing on some distant point, and he will wax nostalgic about Kathryn Janeway.   
  
At some point, we'll talk about the various aliens we ran into. I'll tell them about the Vidiians and how they "salvaged" body parts in an attempt to fight off of the phage. Somehow the conversation will turn to Tom, how he betrayed us all, and how I married him. We'll talk about the people we left behind - Suder, Seska, and Bendara - in muted voices. Then it will grow quiet as we think - but don't mention - the ones who died during the Dominion War.   
  
That's when the ghosts come and take their seats among us. We remember them with bated breath and in low voices.  
  
The sacrifice will be acknowledged, lamented, and then we will blink a few times, clear our throats and continue. We'll dwell on the mundane, the day's chores, the pleasantries, the weather - we won't talk about what really matters; we have enough excuses to hide behind and it's safer to live firmly in the past and not explore what is and what will be.  
  
I place my hand on the doorknob and turn it clockwise.  
  
"B'Elanna!" Chakotay rises to his feet as I walk in. "Good morning."  
  
"Good morning," I take a look around. "Where is everyone?"  
  
"Jessup said something about needing to get some kind of filtration system online before noon. I was going to go with them but Anna told me you were on your way, so I thought I'd wait for you   
so you wouldn't be alone," Chakotay says. "Here, let me get you a cup of coffee."  
  
"That sounds good, thank you. Thanks for waiting."  
  
"You're welcome."  
  
I sit down opposite Chakotay's chair. A second later, he returns with a steaming silver mug.  
  
"It's decent," he says. "Kathryn would kill for coffee like this. At the very least, risk the Prime Directive."  
  
"Well, she has all the fresh coffee she could possibly want now."  
  
"True," Chakotay knits his hands together, pressing his palms flat against the table's wooden slats. He looks over my shoulder, and I twist to see what he is looking at. There is a view, one I did not notice last night. Through the window, we can see the snow covered peaks of the Northern Range and the tall trees extending up to the skies.   
  
"I want to send a message to Voyager," I say. "Do you know where the generators are? The ones creating the dampening field?"  
  
"We can ask one of the others," Chakotay says, his gaze still fixed on those faraway mountains.  
  
"What is it?" I ask.  
  
"Nothing," he shrugs.  
  
"If something's bothering you, we should talk about it."  
  
"Nothing's bothering me."  
  
"You're worried about the Captain, about Voyager..."  
  
"You don't have to state the obvious, B'Elanna."  
  
I turn around to face the mountains again.   
  
"I wouldn't mind staying here, B'Elanna," Chakotay says in a low voice. "Regardless of what happens, I don't think I'd mind it at all."  
  
"What about Starfleet?" I ask.  
  
"What about it? You seem to have forgotten that I left Starfleet almost fifteen years ago."  
  
"I assumed you'd go back."  
  
"I don't have the stomach for it." Chakotay gets up from his seat and wanders to the window.   
  
"It's quiet here, B'Elanna, and I think I would enjoy that."  
  
"You just got here. It hasn't even been a week. How do you know you would like it here?"  
  
"It's just a feeling."  
  
"It's cold, miserable," I point out. "Light years from anywhere."  
  
"You see the attraction then?" Chakotay grins. "Breakfast?"  
  
"No, I'm not hungry."  
  
"You've got to eat, B'Elanna."  
  
"I told you I'm not hungry," I push back the empty cup of coffee.   
  
Chakotay folds his arms across his chest and pushes back in his chair.  
  
"No reason for you to be upset," he says in his annoying "let's be reasonable" tone. "I just   
made a statement about what I'd like; no reason for it to bother you."  
  
"You've given up," I hiss back. "You don't think the Captain and the others are out there looking for us. You're ready to give up and spend the rest of your life on this iceberg. That's what infuriates me. You're like the others, like Anna and Jessup, giving up."  
  
"I'm not giving up," Chakotay says. "I'm just ready to settle down. Aren't you?"  
  
"The other day, you were lecturing me on how you had a bad feeling about this situation and now you're ready to unpack and move right in? What's the matter with you?"  
  
"I've had some time to think," Chakotay says. "You know, when the Captain and I were left on New Earth, it wasn't so bad. It was nice, actually. Relaxing, lovely, a nice change of pace."  
  
I get up from my seat.  
  
"I'm going to look for that field generator."  
  
Outside, the air nips at my cheeks. I take a couple steps, and then realize I have no idea where the generator is; damn, I'd kill for a tricorder now. I'd even trade the lukewarm coffee for a   
tricorder.  
  
"Looking for someone?" Jessup asks. I whirl around.  
  
"You scared me," I answer. "Actually I wanted to know where the generators were, the ones that amplify the dampening field."  
  
"Up there," Jessup points towards some hills in the distance. "About five kilometers out. The station is there. What are you planning to do?"  
  
"Disrupt the field long enough to send a message to Voyager."  
  
"Are you crazy?" Jessup asks. "If you do that, the Federation will take away one of our privileges."  
  
"Oh please," I say. "That's juvenile."  
  
"Don't mistake your surroundings for anything but a prison, B'Elanna."  
  
"I seem to be the only one who remembers that," I shoot back. "Now, do you have a tricorder? I can modify a medical one, if need be. I also need a phase link coupler; I seem to have left mine behind on Voyager."  
  
Jessup sighs. "I'll come with you. At least, that way I'll know you won't get lost."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Jessup puts his hand on the small of my back and gently propels me toward the Infirmary. No one is inside, but that is no surprise; we Maquis didn't have much patience for sitting around waiting for wounded and if you were wounded, you treated yourself, gritting your teeth and hoping that you had prescribed the right treatment for yourself. I put my hands on the single biobed, leaning all my weight forward. For a scary moment, I actually do miss the EMH. I miss his constant nagging, his questions, that annoying baritone in my ear.   
  
"Here you go," Jessup hands me a medkit. "Everything you want should be in there."  
  
"Including the coupler?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
I open the medkit just to be sure. Most of the instruments - tricorder, scalpel, and hypospray - can be easily modified for other uses. I remove one of the regenerators to make room for the coupler and a couple of data chips.  
  
"Let's go," I say.  
  
I swing the medkit onto my shoulder and head out. I hear Jessup behind me, his feet crunching gravel beneath his shoes. After a second, he catches up to me, slightly out of breath.  
  
"I forgot how fast you walk when you're angry," he observes. "It's too early to be angry, B'Elanna."  
  
"You sound like Tom."  
  
"Well, it is true. It's not even lunch time."  
  
"I'm surprised you care; you seemed ready to cut me up and serve me up to the Maquis tribunal the other day."  
  
"Sorry, that was uncalled for," Jessup says. "Truce?"  
  
I pause for a moment and look into those dark eyes. Jessup and I, we did have a minor fling years ago, shortly after I joined the Maquis. I had no real feelings for him, only my own wounded self-confidence that propelled me from on relationship to another; unfortunately, he did take our relationship more seriously. Our breakup wasn't particularly violent or hysterical; it ended like most, quietly, when both of us were too tired to fight for it anymore. Soon after our breakup, Jessup went to another cell, ostensibly because they needed a qualified engineer, but I knew better; truth be told, I was grateful that he was gone.  
  
Because I was falling in love again and it would have been hard to hide it from Jessup.  
  
"Truce," I hold out my hand.  
  
"You want me to carry that?"  
  
"No."  
  
"That's right, I forgot," Jessup laughs easily. "You haven't changed, B'Elanna Torres. You're still as feisty as I remember. I figured living on a Starfleet ship for seven years would have made you soft, but apparently I was mistaken."  
  
"You're mistaken about a lot."  
  
"Including Tom Paris?"  
  
"Especially Tom Paris."  
  
"Forgive me if I'm still surprised."  
  
"Get over it."  
  
"I thought it would be Chakotay."  
  
I stop in my tracks, noticing for the first time that we have cleared the settlement and we are nearly knee-deep in grass.   
  
"What are you saying?" I try to keep my voice completely even, but even so, the faintest of tremors slips in.  
  
"You know what I'm talking about, B'Elanna. It was obvious."  
  
"That was a long time ago."  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Look, would you stop? Yesterday you were going on about Tom and today, today it's Chakotay? Do you have anything better to talk about?" I start moving again, annoyed at the weeds, annoyed at the cold and most of all, annoyed with Jessup.  
  
"He cares for you," Jessup says softly. "You could do worse."  
  
"Like Tom."  
  
"Like Tom," he affirms.  
  
"I'm not having this conversation," I tell him. "It's over, we're done. End of subject."  
  
"Right," Jessup says unconvincingly. "Whatever you say."  
  
****  
  
Seven has the energy of a warp core matrix; at least, that's the only analogy I can come up with. Her fingers move briskly, but her mind moves faster, at warp speed at the very least. She punches in algorithms without taking a second to ruminate over them. Lack of sleep does not bother her - she is just as quick without as I am with. I am truly, in a word, amazed.  
She also does not have the need to think out loud, like I do.  
  
"Lieutenant," she says crisply. "I need silence."  
  
"Sorry," I tell her for the umpteenth time. "I'm trying to see how everything fits together. Why would you cause a starbase to explode? Even a crippled starbase is worth something."  
  
"There is no purpose in trying to understand an illogical action," Seven says.  
  
I turn back to my PADD, trying to understand - in a bleary-eyed sort of way - why a dead man would issue an order to release the Maquis prisoners. The only thing I find remotely interesting is that at one time, Lieutenant Eric Sullivan served briefly on Deep Space Nine while Michael Eddington served as Chief of Security.  
  
"Look," Seven points at the screen. She has finished the painstaking work of plotting every possible course every ship leaving Starbase 87 could have possibly taken. "I have overlaid these with the known routes."  
  
"The ships that have returned?" I ask.  
  
"Yes," she nods, giving me that "here's a gold star for you" look. I think sometimes Seven thinks I have the intelligence of an Andorian flea. Give her credit though, she has been trying lately to be more understanding, more human. "Only two ships are unaccounted for: the Atalanta and the Travis."  
  
"Hmm," I look up at the screen. The green lines denote the proposed courses of the Atalanta and the red ones mark the Travis. "So how do we pick one? How do we even know either survived the explosion?"  
  
"Good question," Janeway says from behind us. I turn. Janeway is not smiling and she has brought Harry along, whether for moral support or for immoral purposes, I have no idea. "I talked to McArthur and told him that our warp drive is offline. He was rather offended by the very notion that anything could be wrong with Voyager."  
  
"He took our chief engineer," I point out. "We wouldn't have this issue if he hadn't taken B'Elanna."  
  
"That is irrelevant," Seven says perfunctorily. "We can fix the warp core problem without Lieutenant Torres."  
  
This is true; Harry and I are responsible for the warp core problem, so we obviously have the capability of fixing it too.  
  
"McArthur wants me to report to Deep Space Nine immediately," Janeway goes on as if Seven never opened her mouth; this is amazing to me. In the past, Janeway would hang onto Seven's every word; in some instances, it would have been appropriate to build a temple to the collected sayings of Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct to Unimatrix One, so that we all might worship at her altar. "The Campbell is going to rendezvous with us."  
  
Janeway's expression is pensive; I've never seen her like this. Either she is violently protective, staring down aliens with that acutely focused glare of hers, or she is smiling, almost coquettishly, her voice syrupy as she loads on the platitudes.   
  
"We have a change in plans," Janeway says. "There's no point in trying to figure out what shuttle Chakotay and Torres might have been and where it may have gone; there is no time for that now."  
  
"What do you propose?" Harry asks.  
  
"We take the Delta Flyer and go find the Maquis," Janeway says. "McArthur told me back on Starbase 87 that all of the surviving Maquis had been resettled on Alonius Prime."  
  
I brighten immediately. "I launched my last raid from there."  
  
"Your only raid," Harry puts in. I glare at him. No need to relive past ignominies, but Harry is especially good at putting salt in long festering wounds.  
  
"Tom, you and Tuvok will be with me," Janeway says.  
  
"What about the Campbell?" Harry asks.  
  
"You'll think of something," Janeway answers. "I'm leaving you in command, Harry."  
  
Harry blanches; being on gamma shift when the Captain is just a comm signal away is one thing, but now, he'll be alone on Voyager with merely the Borg drone to back him up. It's the opportunity - and the anxiety attack - of his career. At this point, Harry is probably the highest-ranking ensign in all of Starfleet.  
  
"Why are you looking for the Maquis?" Seven asks. Janeway looks up at her with that indulgent grin that is usually reserved for Seven and Seven alone.  
  
"Something Admiral Paris said to me," Janeway says. "I want to find out if it's true. If there is indeed some kind of cover-up and that's the reason why the Federation and Starfleet are both so eager to prosecute the Maquis, then I need to know."  
  
"You saw the records. The Maquis are guilty of many crimes," Seven points out. We all stare at her in disbelief. She offers me a small, rare smile. "I am merely pointing out the facts. The Commander and Lieutenant Torres are guilty of many crimes. They should be subjected to the same laws as everyone else. Reformation of character cannot be a valid defense."  
  
"Remind me not to bring you into the court room with us," Janeway responds.   
  
"Captain," Harry says. "What if...?"  
  
"What?" she is impatient, ready to get going. Once adrenaline starts pumping through Kathryn Janeway's body, it's impossible to slow her down. She'll roll right over you if you don't jump out of the way quickly enough. Poor Harry. Even after seven years, this is one lesson he has yet to absorb.  
  
"What if there is no cover up?" Harry asks.  
  
"I don't think that is the case," Janeway says.   
  
Translation: Janeway refuses to believe that our current situation could be anything but legitimate. I don't blame her. If the odd sequence of events since our return were, in fact, reasonable and lawful, then I think I'd prefer the Delta Quadrant in a heartbeat.  
  
"Tom, get the Flyer ready. I'll meet you and Tuvok in one hour."  
  
She leaves, and Seven, Harry and I exchange uneasy looks.  
  
"Have fun," Harry says weakly.   
  
"This is just what I'm looking forward to," I say. The last time I saw the Maquis, they were ready to sink their teeth into me; hell, some of them would have shot at me without a second thought. In their minds, I ranked just above Cardassians but below the Federation on the totem pole of hatred. "Making friends with the Maquis. Terrific."  
  
"I will continue our work," Seven says, as if there was any doubt at all to her steadfastness and eagerness. I bet she'd go weeks without regenerating, if need be.  
  
I admire her dedication. A couple years ago, we'd have lynched her right out of an airlock for her annoying detachment and cool demeanor. Now, we think differently and even she thinks of us as more than an annoying collective of individuals bent on thwarting her every move.  
  
"Great," I say. "Good luck."  
  
Harry and I exit Astrometrics. Out in the corridor, Harry keeps looking at me furtively, but I don't call him on it. He has something to say, I know, but I'm not sure that I want to hear it. We stop by my quarters and I throw a few things into an overnight pack and then look at Harry.  
He offers me a baleful look.  
  
"Be careful out there," he says. "Don't do anything stupid."  
  
"I don't plan on it," I answer. "But circumstances, you never know."  
  
"You never know," Harry agrees. "Especially when someone blows up a starbase on purpose."  
  
I stare at him; the thought has been in the back of my mind from the beginning and I'm sure everyone else has the same suspicion, but has yet to voice it. I swallow hard.  
  
"It could be murder," Harry continues, his voice soft. "Something to do with Chakotay and B'Elanna, you know - murder them before they have the chance to speak and do it so spectacularly that there are no questions."  
  
I clear my throat.  
  
"They're not dead, Harry."  
  
"I'm just telling you how I see it."  
  
"I hope you're wrong."  
  
"You know I'm not."  
  
We walk in silence to the shuttlebay. Once there, Harry punches my shoulder good ol' boy fashioned in a gesture of support.   
  
"Good luck," he says blandly. He offers me a weak smile, but it does little to ease the tension already manifesting in my muscles. The prior mention of murder makes me uneasy and I'm wondering if Harry's right, that if inadvertently, the pieces are already there. A scheme from years ago, the key players either dead or missing, and an elaborate murder plot masked as a reactor core meltdown. I bite my lip.   
  
There is hope though; someone knew what was happening, someone had asked that the Maquis be evacuated - someone who did not want to be identified because...  
  
I look at Harry.  
  
"It's in the order," I tell him urgently. "Tell Seven to forget about possible routes of shuttlecraft, it's not important. Whoever ordered the release of the Maquis knew that the station was going to explode, knew that they wouldn't be evacuated..."  
  
Harry's eyes are wide with comprehension and I know he's thinking about those white-suited workers who lost their lives in the explosion. My thoughts drift to my father and I wonder if anyone had taken the time to notify him or whether he decided to play the hero to the very last moment, staying until the station had been evacuated to his satisfaction.  
  
"I'll tell Seven," Harry promises. By now Janeway and Tuvok have joined us. Janeway gives Harry the once over, her lips quirking up in a mixture of sadness and pride; it is doubtful she will return to Voyager after this trip. Hell, after this, it's doubtful any of us will still have careers in Starfleet.  
  
There's sure to be a court martial waiting for us with open arms in San Francisco.  
  
At the risk of sinking deeper into cynicism, what's another court martial? Really, once you've got one under your belt, the novelty wears off.   
  
Of course, I can't say the same for Harry or the others, but it's no matter – I'll help them through it, if it ever comes to that. I'm a pro at handling trouble.  
  
"I'll take care of Voyager," Harry tells the Captain in his most sincere and earnest tone. She nods.  
  
"I know you will," she clutches at his shoulder briefly and then looks at Tuvok and me. "Let's go, gentlemen. We don't have a lot of time."  
  
****  
  
We're halfway up the hill when I realize Jessup is breathing heavily. I turn to look at him directly, noting that he is quite red in the face.  
  
"You're tired," I observe.  
  
"I can keep up," he pants. "You're not even winded."  
  
"I tried to keep in shape. Klingon exercise programs."  
  
"That's surprising. Didn't think you liked that stuff."  
  
"I don't, but somehow, no matter what I did, it'd come back to haunt me."  
  
"Yeah?" Jessup pauses and leans against a tree. "Want some water?"  
  
"No thanks."  
  
It is almost midday. The sun is a distant, fuzzy halo in the gray-white sky and there is the barest hint of a breeze. It's not unpleasant weather if you keep moving, I realize, and the peacefulness of the scenery, the cleanness of the air - in some ways, I can understand what   
Chakotay was saying earlier.   
  
"How did you get used to being here?" I ask as Jessup takes a swig of his water bottle.  
  
"I guess each day you wake up and go to sleep, it grows on you."  
  
"Chakotay was talking about wanting to stay here forever."  
  
"Yeah, we were talking about that at breakfast." Jessup puts the bottle back into his pack and nods, indicating we can keep going. Instead of powering up ahead of him, I drift by his side.   
  
"What specifically?" I ask.  
  
"I think it was all of us," Jessup shrugs. "Nostalgia has a way of acting on people sometimes. You know, B'Elanna, we all went through some tough times as Maquis and there are things that happened that no one else could possibly understand except for another Maquis. When you find that instant understanding, it's hard to let go."  
  
I nod. "I know what you mean."  
  
Jessup says, "We're a family."  
  
Ah, the familiar refrain - the one where we all sit around and moan about how no one wants us. It gets tiring after a while.  
  
I slap my arm as a bug sinks its teeth, or whatever they are called, into my sink.  
  
"Your insects are the size of small shuttles," I observe.  
  
"Lovely, aren't they?" Jessup says. "Some of them are infectious."  
  
"Terrific."  
  
Jessup looks at my forearm; already a red welt is forming on the skin. It's a beauty, if I say so myself.  
  
"Let me put something on that," he says. He opens up the medkit and quickly applies a salve to my skin. "This should help with the itch."  
  
"Thanks."   
  
"You're welcome."  
  
I push some branches aside and wait for Jessup to pass me.   
  
"It's nice for the Federation to make a path for us," I note sardonically.  
  
"Actually, it's a stream bed," Jessup says. "There's nothing nice about it. B'Elanna, tell me about the Borg."  
  
I stiffen, and he notices.  
  
"Of course you don't have to if you don't want to," he says hastily. "I was just curious."  
  
"I assimilated people," I wait for him to react but he simply nods.  
  
"I don't suppose that's any worse then pointing a phaser at someone and shooting," he says. "We did that a lot in the Maquis and I don't think either of us lost any sleep over it."  
  
"That was different."  
  
"How?"  
  
"They weren't innocent."  
  
"How do you know?" Jessup puts his hand on my forearm. "B'Elanna, we hit military outposts, but we also hit quite a few settlements. Innocent people died. You know that as well as I do."  
  
"You're wrong," I say stubbornly, shaking my arm free of his grip. "You don't know what you're saying."  
  
"It's true," Jessup says. "I remember the B'Elanna Torres of seven years ago. You could walk into any Cardassian outpost and take on five soldiers without even blinking. That's the kind of person you were, B'Elanna. I saw you; you would step over the bodies and not even notice what you were doing. And when we analyzed the raids, we always did it in terms of body count and that didn't seem to bother you."  
  
"Maybe it should have," I say.  
  
"Why?" Jessup is now two steps ahead of me, so he twists around slightly to aim the question back at me. "You had a cause, believed what you were doing. How was that any different when you were assimilated? I assume you believed in something when you volunteered to go along."  
  
"We had to release a virus," I say. "It would mean ending the Borg dominance in the Delta Quadrant as we knew it; perhaps, eradicate the threat all together."  
  
"How is that any more or less honorable than what we did as Maquis?"  
  
He has a point, much as I hate to concede it. And he is right; during some of our raids, we did go hand to hand with Cardassians and on one occasion, with Starfleet personnel. These memories are rose-tinged in my mind, merely triumphs to be remembered with no cause to recall my bloody hands or the muscles spasms that came when a phaser rifle fired.   
  
"Remember the Malinche?" Jessup's voice is low. "I do."  
  
Distorted images come immediately to mind; smoke everywhere, faces blurred, lips moving, but the sounds coming from somewhere else. And then I recall turning a corner and seeing an ensign, young, a fresh graduate, dressed in blue. Science. He looked at me, his eyes wide with fear, his hands up, palms facing me. And he said my name, softly, "B'Elanna Torres?"  
  
And because it was not a time to stop and reminiscence, not a time to think who he might be or where we might have met, I raised my rifle and fired. He fell to the ground, his eyes still open, fixated on me. I stopped only to close his eyelids and then stepped over his body, not even contemplating what I had just done. I had only one thought and that was to get to Engineering, sabotage the warp core, and get the hell out of there.  
  
"Yes," I whisper. "I remember."  
  
"How about Nerok Tor?"  
  
Nerok Tor, that Cardassian hell hole; a thickly walled compound, surrounded by the very latest in Cardassian death technology. Damn those reptiles were good at killing, maiming; their singular methods of dispatchment were sterile, relatively painless and entirely too tidy, leaving no blood or cellular residue behind.   
  
Yet, here we were in the middle of the night, lying on our stomachs as rain pounded down on our backs. We were hungry, hadn't eaten in over twenty-six hours, and we were cold. Yet, we lay there, waiting for the inevitable change of guard, for those thirty seconds when Cardassian backs were turned and we could make our move.  
  
Chakotay gave the order to move out and slowly, we emerged from the shadows, crawling forward. The first guard we took out with a quick and quiet knife to the throat; I did not feel anything when red first stained the Cardassian's dull gray skin. We entered the compound, phaser rifles fully charged, sharpened knives in our boots, and an additional hand phaser attached to our belts. We took each guard quietly, using the knife when possible and occasionally, the phaser, if need be.   
  
According to the plans Chakotay had lifted from an inebriated Cardassian guard, the medical supplies were in the building furthest from the main gate. We donned our gas masks and Chakotay released the biogenic bomb. We flattened ourselves against the wall, watching as thick-bodied Cardassians fell, their eyes bleeding and all of them screaming. We waited patiently until the courtyard filled with corpses and then we moved. I led the way, leaving Chakotay and Chell to cover for Ayala, McKenzie and myself.   
  
"This way," I pointed, and we ran. Ayala and McKenzie entered the storage room and began to stock their bags. I did not have to tell them to hurry; it would only be a few minutes before Cardassian troops caught wind of what was going on and then we would be as dead as those Cardassians in the courtyard. It was then I saw the boy. He was small for a Cardassian, but his eyes were enormous, intelligent, and he was standing in the doorway, pointing a disrupter at me.   
  
"B'Elanna," McKenzie said quietly, her hand on my shoulder. "He's just a boy."  
  
"He's one of them," my voice was shaking.  
  
"Please," Ayala held up a hand. "Put your weapon down."  
  
"We won't hurt you," I added.   
  
The boy's hand trembled, but he aimed and fired. We ducked as debris rained down from us. And without really thinking, I pointed my own weapon. The boy fell, the disrupter falling from his lifeless hand.   
  
"He would have killed us," I told Mariah.   
  
"I know," McKenzie replied. "Let's go."  
  
I suppose it was easy back then to become so jaded, to not care about anything at all. We Maquis were so good at not feeling a thing, at numbing our senses. We wore our disenchantment close to our skin, flaunting our bitterness and reveling in our anger. We talked about our families detachedly, alternating between sadness and smoldering rage. We mourned our friends with passion and each time we moved into position, aiming for that soft spot between a Cardassian's eye ridges, we immortalized the sacrifices of our dead.   
  
Jessup is right; there is no difference between what I did seven years ago to what I did only five months ago.   
  
More importantly, he is bringing me to an inevitable conclusion: you can't choose to have a conscience after the fact.  
  
****  
  
The thing I hate most about away missions is that eventually, you run out of things to say. In fact, sometimes, you never had anything to say in the first place, and then there is the awkward silence, as if everyone's jaw is paralyzed into silence - afraid of saying the wrong or stupid thing just to fill up the quiet so that it's not so obvious.  
  
I've never had much to say to Tuvok; he's known for many things, but his conversational skills are not among his career highlights. As for Janeway, we are still in that fandango mode, triple time rhythmic dancing around what needs to be said and what must be avoided at all costs.   
  
Tuvok doesn't mind the silence. He is uncommonly devoted to his PADD, scrolling through the obscurities of Federation law; I imagine he will get his day in court soon.   
  
Janeway is sitting behind me, acting as co-pilot. I can imagine her expression - thin-lipped, narrowed eyes, tight jawbone.   
  
And because there is nothing in front of me but endless space with nary a meteorite shower to spice things up, I put on the autopilot and lean back in my chair. I close my eyes, a deliberate move to ward off any conversation Janeway and Tuvok may start.   
  
And in stillness, my thoughts drift, invariably, to B'Elanna.   
  
The first time I met B'Elanna, she had this expression... as if she had just eaten something very bad. Her lips curled up and her eyes narrowed as she took my stock, and believe me, she raked me over the coals with that look. We were in a cave, apparently, one of the nicer ones available to the Maquis, I learned later, but at the time, I thought it dismal: damp walls, musty smelling and chilly even for me.  
  
"And you are?" she asked coolly as she circled around me.  
  
"Tom Paris, at your service," I said, offering her my most pleasant, most charming smile. "And you are?"  
  
I learned then that B'Elanna didn't answer question; she asked them.  
  
"And you came from where?" she asked.  
  
"Depends on how literal you want to get."  
  
"I'll settle for something close to the real story."  
  
"Got drummed out of Starfleet," I said. "I had an incident."  
  
"An incident?" she said the word as if it were four-lettered. "How did you find us?"  
  
"You Maquis aren't exactly the most subtle people in the galaxy, you know," I said. "You might as well wear a klaxon on your back."  
  
B'Elanna didn't like that answer; she slapped me. I rubbed my cheek thoughtfully.   
  
"Try again," she said. She curled her upper lip back, revealing the sharpest row of teeth I'd ever seen before.  
  
"I asked around," I shrugged. "Someone, I didn't get his name, said if I waited out here, someone would be by shortly. I guess that's you?"  
  
B'Elanna glared at me and for a moment I was afraid that she would reduce me to a pile of ashes; at the very least, the fire in her eyes had the potential to turn me into a soprano.   
  
"What do you do?" she barked.  
  
"Is this an interrogation?"  
  
"You think we just let people walk right in? How do I know you're not a spy?"  
  
"Do I look like a spy?"  
  
"You certainly don't look like much."  
  
I looked at B'Elanna then, evaluating the half-Klingon for the first time. She was tiny, but somehow her presence seemed to fill the cave, her voice echoing through the caverns. I had no doubt that she could easily kick me across the floor, leave me bruised and bloodied, and not break a sweat.   
  
"I could say the same about you," I said easily. I turned my brightest smile on, just for her, but B'Elanna was singularly unappreciative.  
  
"What do you do?" B'Elanna repeated.  
  
"I'm a pilot. I fly."  
  
"Are you any good?"  
  
"I'm the best."  
  
"Will there be room at the helm for both you and your ego?"  
  
"I don't need this," I held up my hand. "Look, I know you guys have a tough battle on your hands. I'm offering my help but I don't need this. I can walk out of here and you lose a good pilot. Your choice."  
  
B'Elanna crossed her arms across her chest.  
  
"Is that so?" she asked. "That's your last word?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Fine," she shrugged. "Nice meeting you."  
  
She turned on her heel and took a few steps forward into the darkness. For a moment, I was tempted to run after her, grab her arm, because I was truly amazed that she would not stop me.  
  
"You're going?" I asked, trying to preserve at least a modicum of dignity.  
  
"You said yourself you didn't need this," B'Elanna replied smoothly. "We're not in the business of attitudes, Mr. Paris. We need dedicated fighters. We're not a charity for when you get kicked out of Starfleet."   
  
Later on, when we were on Voyager, I would call B'Elanna on this statement of hers, asking if she hadn't done the same thing as me - running away to the Maquis, but she protested, saying that because Chakotay recruited her, it wasn't the same thing.  
  
At least her motives had been semi-pure; I simply didn't have the money to pay my bar tab and I wanted to fly.   
  
And I was watching my last opportunity to resolve both situations walk away from me.  
  
"Fine," I said. "I don't have anywhere to go and I want to fly."  
  
"At least now you're being honest," she walked back to me. "Come with me."  
  
She led me into the bowels of the cave, picking her way through the darkness easily. I kept one hand on her shoulder the entire time, wondering if we would get lost down here. I had nightmarish visions of wandering beneath the surface of the planet forever and maybe one day, someone would find our skeletons scattered among the smooth-faced rocks.  
  
"How do you know where we're going?" I asked.   
  
"We have our ways," B'Elanna said.  
  
"I get it. You don't trust me yet."  
  
"I just met you thirty minutes ago. Give me a few years and then we'll talk."  
  
I noticed then that B'Elanna kept her hand on the walls and I assumed that she was finding the correct path. After walking for what seemed like an interminable time, I noted a faint golden glow.  
  
"Don't speak," B'Elanna instructed. "If you want to live, you'll keep your mouth shut."  
  
"Terrific."  
  
"Shut up."  
  
We entered a large cavern, crowded with people, and the air thick with sweat and other smells that were not so pleasant. Voices immediately quieted as we entered and Chakotay, followed by Seska, was the first to greet us.  
  
"Who is this?" Chakotay asked.  
  
"Tom Paris," B'Elanna said with a snort. "He's a pilot."  
  
"Where did you find him?"   
  
"On the surface. He was waiting by the cave entrance."  
  
"Resourceful."  
  
"I thought so."  
  
I quirked a smile at Seska but she shot daggers in my direction.  
  
"You Starfleet?" Chakotay asked me.  
  
"You're talking to me now?" I queried.  
  
"You can always find your own way now, can't you?" B'Elanna asked silkily.   
  
"Yes," I said to Chakotay, pointedly ignoring the petite woman at my elbow. "Formerly Starfleet. I ran into a little problem."  
  
"You said incident earlier. If you're going to stay, you better get your story straight,"   
B'Elanna said.  
  
"Incident, problem, same thing," I told her. "It was a shuttle accident."  
  
"You just said you were the best pilot we could find."  
  
"I am. It was a stupid accident, shouldn't have happened, but there you have it. It did and I got cashiered out. Any questions?"  
  
Chakotay looked at Seska and she shrugged. Even then, I noticed her proprietary hand on Chakotay's forearm and the way she seemed to sneer at B'Elanna; B'Elanna, for her part, barely looked at Seska.   
  
"Where?" Chakotay asked in a low voice.  
  
"Caldik Prime."  
  
"Come with me," Seska said. She let go of Chakotay's arm to take mine. "If you're lying, we'll do exactly what B'Elanna said earlier. You'll find your own way out."  
  
"You're not exactly the sympathetic kind, are you?" I asked. "You or... B'Elanna?"  
  
Seska stared at me, her expression one of utter disbelief.  
  
"There aren't many who are sympathetic to us. Forgive us if you don't find us reciprocating a sentiment that we don't necessarily get," she said.   
  
"Where are we going?"  
  
"Back here," Seska nodded towards a quiet corner. "I'll get you a blanket and then you can see Ayala for food. It gets cold down here so we try to keep the fires going all night, but sometime they go out; deal with it. We don't necessarily sleep regular hours and we move fast. We've been here for two months, but the Federation is good at sniffing us out. You dawdle, you get left behind. You don't help out, you get left behind. Is that clear?"  
  
"You don't mince words," I observed. "And neither does she."  
  
I looked at B'Elanna and Chakotay, their heads tipped close together. Once, B'Elanna motioned towards in our direction, so I knew they were talking about me.  
  
"So do I get to stay?" I asked.  
  
"Depends on him," Seska said. "Chakotay. He leads this cell."  
  
"They're close, aren't they?"  
  
"Who?" Seska's tone was sharp as she pushed a blanket into my arms. "Don't lose the blanket. It's the only one you're going to get. This isn't Starfleet where irresponsibility is acceptable."  
  
"So I'm learning."  
  
Seska then brought me to Ayala who looked up at me with an expression of lightly veiled disgust.  
"I know you," he said in a low voice. "Tom Paris. You were at the Academy when I was there. Surprised they let you stay after you got expelled. Did your father get you back in?"  
  
"Who is your father?" Seska asked, her voice taut with dangerous undertones.  
  
"He's an admiral," Ayala said. "You'd better watch this one, Seska. Wouldn't trust him a bit."  
  
"Why do you say that?" Chakotay asked from behind us.   
  
Ayala shrugged, not giving any weight to the accusation he had just made. I offered him a scowl in return for his troubles. B'Elanna circled behind Ayala so that we were looking directly at each other.  
  
"Don't worry, Michael," B'Elanna said evenly. "This one is mine."  
  
****  
  
It happened because I was not paying attention. One misstep and I am on the ground, clutching my ankle. I curse, loudly and in Klingon, as Jessup stands over me.  
  
"Was lost in thought," I gasp. "Wasn't paying attention. Thinking about that raid, the one on Nerok Tor."  
  
Jessup kneels and opens up the medkit. The tricorder, rudimentary as it is, shows I am now the proud owner of a broken ankle. The cause of the fall? A shallow hole, obscured by soggy leaves.  
  
"How are we from the generator?" I gasp as Jessup presses a hypospray against my neck.  
  
"Not far. Five hundred meters."  
  
"I can do it."  
  
"You'll cause more damage. Let me go back and get the osteo-regengerator."  
  
"There isn't one in there?" I ask.  
  
"We took it out, remember? So you could put other tools you needed in there?"  
  
"Damn."  
  
I look up at the sky, a small patch of it visible through the leafy canopy. The ground is wet, moisture seeping through my clothing.   
  
"B'Elanna, let me get help," Jessup says.  
  
"Get me to the generator and then you can go."  
  
"B'Elanna..."  
  
"I'm serious," I tell him. "Help me up."  
  
Jessup puts his arms beneath my armpits and I lean on him, putting most of my weight on my good right leg. For a moment, I steady myself against Jessup, and then I loop my arm around his shoulder.  
  
"How do you feel?" he asks.  
  
"Much better now that you gave me that painkiller," I answer. "Let's move."  
  
We hobble slowly through the forest and at point, Jessup chuckles.  
  
"You haven't changed, B'Elanna, not a bit," he says.  
  
"What are you talking about?" I gasp.  
  
"I never knew anyone so contrary."  
  
I tighten my grip on his shoulder as he helps me over a fallen log.  
  
"We're almost there," Jessup says. "Yes, you have always been contrary, always doing those things that put you most in danger, even when better sense and experience would tell you otherwise."  
  
"Give me an example," I challenge.  
  
"There are so many, I don't know where to start."  
  
"That's because you can't remember."  
  
"Stubborn, that's what you are," Jessup laughs again. "But that's what so wonderful about you,   
B'Elanna. You don't ever give up."  
  
"jeghbe' tlhInganpu'," I say with feeling.  
  
"What?" Jessup asks.  
  
"Something my grandmother would say."  
  
"Ah, your grandmother. A wise woman she was," Jessup says. "Honorary mascot of the Maquis, wasn't she? Always one of her proverbs on the tip of your tongue. What does that one mean?"  
  
"'Klingons don't surrender'," I answer.   
  
"Don't I know it," Jessup offers me his first grin of our rather strenuous outing.  
  
We see the small facility that the Federation has set up in front of us. It consists of a low, pre-fabricated structure and several small round cylinders.  
  
"Force field?" I ask.  
  
"No."  
  
"Trusting, aren't they?"  
  
"You could put it that way."  
  
The door to the building is locked but I immediately remedy the problem by taking a laser scalpel to the control panel and severing the control mechanism. I reroute a couple wires and the doors slides open.  
  
"Nice trick," Jessup says.  
  
"Tom taught me."  
  
Jessup says nothing, but helps me into the building.  
  
"I'm going to head back," he says. "I'll get the regenerator and get someone else to help me bring you back. You should be fine here."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"I'll be back in two hours."  
  
"Great."  
  
I'm secretly relieved that Jessup is gone. He seems friendly enough, unambitious for anything more than friendship, but it is always awkward to be reunited with someone you may have had feelings for once. I use "may" as a disclaimer because I did not necessarily feel a strong emotion for Jessup. I saw him mostly as a quick fix, someone I could toss onto the bed and in five minutes, feel satisfied. Heartless, yes, but believe me, when I saw Chakotay touch Seska's cheek, my heartlessness towards Jessup was better than the despair and anger I felt over Chakotay's relationship with Seska.  
  
Call me jealous but that was how it was.  
  
I haul myself over to the field generator, very glad that it is a standard Starfleet design, uncomplicated and unburdened by various modifications. It hums loudly, generating a rather annoying "zzz" sound, but it makes no fuss as I pry open the front and start examining the circuitry inside.   
  
Initially, I had planned to use my communicator to send a voice message, but now I feel that it will be too risky to do so; background noise will be less noticeable.  
  
It takes no time at all to disrupt the field and send the modulated pulse. It's a quick burst, a Morse code signal that I know both Tom and Harry - from their endless hours playing Captain Proton - will recognize. Thirty seconds is all I allow before I remodulate dampening field and bring it back online. And I fervently hope that the powers that be, those almighty Federation authorities with their booming voices and puffed-out chests, were not aiming their sensors in our direction during those thirty seconds.  
  
More importantly, I hope Voyager is out there, looking for us.  
  
My arm throbs from the insect bite I had received earlier. I pull up my sleeve and note the swelling with disinterest. I haul over the medkit and put some more of the cream on the inflamed area in a futile attempt to stop the allergic reaction.  
  
I lean back against the wall, taking a quick survey of my surroundings. There are two field generators in the room, all that are necessary to power the Maquis colony and keep the dampening field active. There are no communications panels, which makes me wonder how the Federation authorities keep in touch with the Maquis.   
  
Already my head spins and I feel hot, incredibly hot.   
  
"Come on, B'Elanna," I say out-loud, trying to shake the overwhelming sense of drowsiness that threatens to take over. I pack up the medkit in an attempt to do anything.  
  
I am tired, exhausted from the trek up here and feeling drowsy from the painkillers Jessup injected into my system. I lay down on the floor, resting my cheek on folded hands, and drift to sleep.  
  
When I wake, it's dark. I shiver and drag myself to the open door. The stars, in all of their pin-prick glory, are visible, and I can see the crescent glow of Alonius' only moon. My eyes are heavy with sleep, and exhaustion seems to be holding all of my muscles hostage. I close my eyes,   
take a deep breath.  
  
"Come on, B'Elanna," I say out-loud. "You can do it."  
  
My ankle is throbbing but I haul myself up anyway, leaning on the wall for support, and then I hop outside. It is sprinkling. I take a couple tentative steps before I fall down, nearly landing on my face.   
  
I roll onto my back and stare up at the sky, wondering where Jessup is. He wouldn't leave me here, I'm sure of it, but his absence is telling and I wonder, fearfully, if something happened while I was sleeping.  
  
There are all sorts of noises emitting from the forests, all sorts of strange and wild creatures, all of them hungry, all of them passionate for something.   
  
Waiting is not something I'm good at. In fact, I chafe at sitting around, and so I crawl back to the shelter and retrieve the medkit. There is still some painkiller, so I inject myself, and then pull myself to my feet.  
  
The ankle hurts.  
  
But it is nothing compared to the injuries I received when I would throw myself out of a shuttlecraft or when I would fight endless battle lines of Klingon heroes, legendary and epic both. I would bleed then, and I would collapse, on the floor of the holodeck, reveling in pain and wanting pain to stay with me, so that I could feel the very life draining out of me.   
  
I kept Tom out of the picture purposely because I knew he would try to stop me and when he would plan dates, I would somehow have a Level Five diagnostic already planned down in Engineering.   
  
When he stopped by my quarters, I would pretend to sleep, and when he booked holodeck time, I was recalibrating long-range scanners or improving helm efficiency.  
  
Once or twice, I went to Tom for help in healing the wounds I gave myself and he would fix me up, his lips pressed into a tight line, and always, he would admonish me to be careful the next time.   
  
I can only guess at the direction of the settlement, so I plug a relative direction into the tricorder, and follow its chirping directions. Occasionally, it squeals loudly to prevent me from going the wrong way.  
  
But it's dark, raining, and the shadows are everywhere; the noises get louder and my mind jumps to conclusions.  
  
Here in the wilderness, I have nothing, not even a stick to hit a curious animal over the head with.  
  
I am truly alone.  
  
And for the first time in years, I feel an emotion unsettlingly similar to fear.  
  
****  
  
I can't remember a time when I didn't find B'Elanna utterly and completely fascinating; I say that with the benefit of hindsight, memories clouded by emotion.  
  
Despite her threat to keep an eye on me, B'Elanna rarely spoke to me during my short time in the Maquis, but that didn't mean I wasn't watching her with something close to desperation.   
  
She was a firebrand then, willful and fiery, and sparks seemed to fly in her wake. She didn't make an attempt to spare feelings and her orders were barked out efficiently and without regard to tone or context.   
  
I would watch B'Elanna, secretly envious of her relationship with Chakotay, and at the same time, longing for her to even cast one look in my direction. Don't think it was lust or romantic feeling back then, because it wasn't; simply put, B'Elanna wasn't my type.  
  
The women I'd been involved with in the past had all been tall, leggy, blond, bubbling with charm, soft-spoken and overflowing with womanly mystique; B'Elanna was petite, muscular, her wavy black hair chopped haphazardly in an upside-down bowl shape, making those Klingon ridges more prominent on her forehead.   
  
But I wanted B'Elanna's attention for the pure reason that in her eyes, I did not exist, and that... startled me. I'd never known a woman who could walk past me and not look.   
  
In a phrase, I was wounded, my manly pride devastated by a Maquis engineer who seemed to lust more over mechanical parts than flesh and blood.  
  
And that's not to say the silent treatment I received was from B'Elanna and B'Elanna only; the other Maquis seemed to place me on the same level as the ubiquitous cockroach, occasionally talking to me, but often in a snide tone.   
  
I had only been with the Maquis three days before I started regretting my decision to join up. I had hoped they would find my piloting skills useful and that they would welcome me with open arms. Damn, reality hurt.  
  
There would be meetings, short huddles, invariably with Chakotay leading in his calm, quiet voice with B'Elanna occasionally interjecting a Klingon epithet or two. Seska was never quiet, especially when B'Elanna had anything other than "yes" o "no" to say; the fireworks between the two of them fascinated me and I often wondered if B'Elanna's feelings for Chakotay extended to something beyond friendship.  
  
And of course, this was all speculation; the Maquis didn't, as a rule, have much fun. I think they were too cold, too tired, too stressed - I say that in retrospect - but at the time, I thought they were all sanctimonious little prigs.  
  
Chakotay seemed to be the only one with the patience to deal with me and even then, he was wary, not really sharing much information with me or asking my opinion. Once, he asked me to accompany him to the surface.  
  
"I hear some Starfleet officers are here on shoreleave," he said. "I know where they go and I'd like you to come."  
  
"What do you plan to do? Set a bomb?"  
  
"We don't work like that, Mr. Paris. We're not assassins."  
  
"That would be a matter of perspective, of course."  
  
Chakotay looked at me thoughtfully, his dark eyes narrowing.   
  
"Depends who you ask," I continued, not necessarily caring about Chakotay's darkening mood. As   
you might guess, I didn't go much for self-preservation in those days. Women, drink, flying - those were my priorities and at this particular moment in time, I was getting none of those.  
  
"You're taking him?" B'Elanna's voice was shrill in my ear. I turned to see an angry half-Klingon - though, in those days, B'Elanna was always angry - arms akimbo.   
  
"If his father's an admiral, it gives him a certain advantage," Chakotay explained. "He can make contact in a way that we cannot."  
  
"How do you know he won't betray us?"  
  
"You said yourself you'd make sure of it," Chakotay was smiling now, but there was no warmth   
there.   
  
"You could take Chell, Gerron, Mariah," B'Elanna said. "You don't need him."  
  
"If he's going to be any good to us, this is the time."  
  
B'Elanna stared at me, and I could read her body language immediately; mess this one up, she seemed to be saying, and you'll be wearing my bat'leth as a belt - permanently. So I gave B'Elanna my best, my most seductive and charming smile, the one I perfected at Sandrine's when I was plying some gorgeous woman with alcohol. Maybe I expected B'Elanna to melt in a pile of goo   
at my feet - that would have been nice - but instead, she turned and marched away.  
  
"Angry one, isn't she?" I asked a bit later when Chakotay and I emerged into bright sunlight. I blinked a few times, trying to clear the spots from my vision and adjust to the fresh air. It smelled wonderful out here in the open, away from the musty gym-socks smell of the Maquis cave.  
  
"Angry is a relative state of being," Chakotay said with equanimity. "Without anger, I doubt any of us would be here."  
  
He then pointed me in the direction of the local hangout.   
  
"You're sending me alone?" I asked.  
  
"You want to be one of us, prove it," Chakotay said. He then turned and left me there.   
  
I walked into town, feeling very conspicuous. I wondered if this was an elaborate set-up, one designed to leave me behind. In a way, it would not have been unwelcome for the Maquis to simply turn their backs on me.   
  
In addition, Chakotay had not made clear what he wanted from me. But I couldn't complain; he, at least, was talking to me, which was more than I could say for the other members of the Maquis, including B'Elanna.  
  
The hangout was lousy with Starfleet; apparently, a transport with medical supplies was in orbit, and the Captain had been kind enough to give his space-sick claustrophobic minions a short vacation.  
  
A group of crewmen were gathered around a table, playing a variation of pool.  
  
"Mind if I join in?" I asked one red-suited Bolian.   
  
"You got the cash?" he asked. "We're playing for money."  
  
"I've got some," I lied.   
  
"Cue up then," the Bolian said. "I'm Reike."  
  
"Tom Paris."  
  
"Tom Paris." Reike handed me a stick. "Caldik Prime?"  
  
"That would be me."  
  
"What are you doing here?" Reike shuffled the balls on the table and arranged them in a circle formation. "Seems a little far out of the way, isn't it?"  
  
"You land where you land," I answered carelessly.   
  
"Ah."  
  
We played in silence for the next ten minutes, each of us landing our respective balls into the appropriate pockets. Reike was good, and for a moment, I wondered if he too had taken advantage of lessons from the proprietor of Sandrine's.   
  
"What brings you to these parts?" I asked casually.  
  
"Couple things," Reike said, never taking his eyes off of the ball. "Medical supplies to a settlement. They've got an outbreak of the ghasa virus."  
  
"Rough."  
  
"Terrible way to go. You bleed to death, literally. Your organs disintegrate."  
  
I shuddered.  
  
"So which outpost?"  
  
"You ask a lot of questions."  
  
"It's not often I get to talk to someone from home," I told him. "Forgive my curiosity."  
  
"Alonius Prime."  
  
"Ah," I said.   
  
We finished the game, with Reike the winner. I slapped him on the back heartily and then indicated the bar. When I dug into my pockets for money that I did not have, he shook his head.  
  
"Don't worry about it, Paris," he said. "You've got more to worry about than a gambling debt."  
In a way, that left-handed way of letting me off the hook was probably the nicest thing anyone had done for me in a really long time.  
  
"Let me buy you a drink then," I said. "The real stuff. None of this Starfleet synthesized stuff."  
  
Reike grinned.   
  
"I could like you, Tom Paris," he said.  
  
I ordered two drinks and passed the glass, filled with amber colored liquid, to Reike.  
  
"You said you were here for something else too," I said. "Shoreleave?"  
  
"No, the Maquis."  
  
"The Maquis?" I feigned ignorance.  
  
"We think they're here. Have you heard anything?"  
  
I shook my head. "Sorry, no. I just got here myself and believe me, no one wants to give me the time of day. I introduce myself and they turn away. It's amazing how one's reputation gets around. And frankly, not all of it is true."  
  
"But Caldik Prime, that is true?"  
  
"Yes," I stared into beverage. "It is."  
  
Reike looked sympathetic, caring, and I was amazed at how much I appreciated that. I hadn't talked about Caldik Prime with anyone really, except for at the hearing, and even then it had been just the facts, straight and unemotional. No one, including my father, had looked me in the eye and asked, "How do you feel, Tom?"  
  
Because they portrayed me in all of the news accounts as a carefree daredevil pilot with absolutely no concerns, I did my best to live up to that image; hell, that charming shiny veneer the press claimed I had, well, it was a lot better than the tangle of nerves and stomach acid I had become.   
  
"That's tough," Reike said.   
  
"Yeah."  
  
We finished our drinks and I ordered more. I didn't think about how I was going to pay for all of these drinks, only cared that I was finally washing some warmth down my throat and the tension was easing from muscles. It felt good to get that slightly fuzzy feeling, that sense of distortion. I don't remember what Reike and I talked about, only that I had forgotten why I had come in the first place.   
  
"What are you doing out here?" Reike's words were slightly slurred, his voice louder than   
necessary. "You never said."  
  
"Taking odd jobs," I answered. "Pilot, you know. Always work available. Hauling freight, running supplies to the border colonies - there's always something."  
  
"Must be fun. Beats Starfleet. I bet your father is upset."  
  
"Yeah," I said, and suddenly this conversation wasn't fun anymore. When I stared at the bottom of my glass, I saw my father's face - his thinning white hair on a round, red-cheeked face with the blue eyes so like my own. "Upset would be an understatement."  
  
"Tough," Reike said, slamming his glass down for emphasis. "Glad I'm not you."  
  
I don't think he knew what he said and he certainly didn't know how close I had been to crashing my own shuttle into the side of a mountain in an attempt to find something in life that didn't revolve around alcohol or women.  
  
See? I wasn't so shallow. I knew I was washed up, knew I was squandering my life away, knew all of that. Hell, everyone was hitting me over the head with Caldik Prime and the millions of other mistakes I had made during the quarter century I'd been alive; I might as well validate their disappointment in me by ending my life as irresponsibly as I had lived it.  
  
And I might have actually done it that day if fate hadn't conspired against me, if Chakotay hadn't shown up then.  
  
He pulled me off of my chair, disgust very evident on his normally calm face.  
Chakotay said nothing, but I had a feeling he paid off the bar tab, and then, he took me by the arm and led me back outside.  
  
We did not talk all the way back to the cave and I sensed that my Maquis days were coming to an end. We descended into the darkness and when we came into the main cavern, I noticed that everyone with the exception of B'Elanna and Seska, were gone. Supplies, everything, packed and efficiently hauled away during my absence.  
  
There was one chair remaining and Chakotay pushed me down into it. My head was spinning and I didn't particularly care; I supposed they were going to leave me here and because I felt so sorry for myself, I would just die here, rotting in my own sweat and vomit.  
  
"He's drunk," B'Elanna's voice dripped with disgust.   
  
"Get him some water," Chakotay ordered. Seska crouched in front of me, cupping my chin in her cold hand.  
  
"What did you tell them?" she whispered.  
  
"Nothing, I swear."  
  
"Alcohol loosens tongues. Tell me. Believe me, I will be kinder to you than Chakotay or B'Elanna will be."  
  
"I said nothing."  
  
"Then what did you find out?"  
  
"The ghasa virus is on Alonius Prime," I said. "Starfleet knows the Maquis are here."  
  
"You were right," Seska turned to face Chakotay. "We did overstay our welcome."  
  
"If Mr. Paris could find us so easily..." B'Elanna said. She handed me a glass of water, and I was amazed that she didn't simply throw it in my face; I knew by her expression that she certainly wanted to.   
  
"Let's get out of here," Seska said. "We've waited too long."  
  
"Right," B'Elanna concurred. It was a rare moment of agreement for those two, and they both looked at Chakotay for confirmation. He nodded.  
  
"Go ahead," he said. "Give me a minute with Mr. Paris."  
  
The two women slung packs over their shoulders - heavy, I could tell - and disappeared into the darkness. Chakotay put his hand on my shoulder as he stared down at me; there was something curiously fatherly about his expression, but the parallels stopped there. He was not happy with me, that much I could tell, and for the life of me, I couldn't tell why.  
  
"You do that again, Mr. Paris, and I will personally hand you over to Starfleet," he said in a low voice. "There is no room for error. You do not get drunk. The risks are too great. Do you   
understand?"  
  
"Anything you say." My words were slurred. Chakotay glared at me and then hauled me to my feet.  
  
"Let's go," he said. "B'Elanna was right. I shouldn't have trusted you."  
  
****  
  
It is a position not unfamiliar to me; cheek in mud, ankle throbbing and cold biting down to the bone. I pull myself along the ground on my elbows. My stomach growls; I haven't eaten since breakfast, and even then, given my short fuse with Chakotay, I hadn't eaten much.  
  
The sliver of moon, visible earlier, has now disappeared behind the ever-shifting clouds.   
I am now convinced that something has happened to Jessup; there is no way he would have left me here.  
  
I haul myself to a sitting position and check the tricorder; I'm headed in the right direction. In the distance, I hear the howls of wild animals, the chirp of insects and the whistle of wind through the leaves. The wind is sharp, biting, and I can't stop shivering. I get to my feet, trying hard not to put weight on the hurt ankle, and hobble forward, leaning on trees for support. I trip and land face down in a puddle.  
  
I don't have enough spirit to get to my feet. I can't feel my fingers and my knees are sore from the falls. I curl into a fetal position on the ground in an attempt to get warm and it's then, I hear the footsteps. I push myself up.  
  
"Tom?" I whisper.  
  
"Hi," he says in that low purr of his. He kneels next to me. "What have you gotten yourself into now, B'Elanna?"  
  
"You got my message," I say.  
  
"Of course I did. I came right away."  
  
"I knew you'd come."  
  
"No, you didn't. You didn't think I would, but you wanted to try anyway. If I didn't show up, it would prove that you were right, that Chakotay was right," Tom sighs heavily. He places his palms on his thighs, but makes no move to help me out of my cold and wet misery.  
  
"I never know with you, Tom. Sometimes you make me feel like I'm the only person in your entire world and other times, I'm like a statue you put up on a mantel, someone you take down on occasion to dust. I never know where I stand with you."  
  
"Don't doubt me. Not now, B'Elanna. Believe me when I tell you that I would never leave you."  
  
His face is in shadows and he does nothing to help me up, but I do not care.  
  
"How long have I been here?" I ask.  
  
"A few days."  
  
"Feels longer than that."  
  
"You've been under a lot of stress."  
  
"Do you know what's going on?"  
  
Tom shakes his head. "Sorry, no. I'm in the dark, just like you."  
  
"I want this to be over."  
  
"I know."  
  
I reach out a hand but he doesn't take it.  
  
"I've missed you," I tell him. "There are things, things I haven't told you."  
  
"It's all right. I know."  
  
"No, you don't. Now that you're here, we can have some time. Alone."  
  
"That sounds nice."  
  
"We didn't have a proper honeymoon. Maybe now?"  
  
"A terrific idea," Tom's voice is enthusiastic. "I've already thought of something."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Chicago, 1940s."  
  
"Where?"  
  
"In one of those old grand hotels. Think of it, B'Elanna. High ceiling lobbies with brilliant red carpet. Curving staircases with finely carved walnut banisters. When you come down the stairs, all eyes will be on you."  
  
"What will I be wearing?"  
  
"Something red. It's already designed for you. You just need to put it on."  
  
"Sounds lovely. What else?"  
  
"There will be a band. Big band, to be precise. We will swing the night away."  
  
"Swing?"  
  
"A style of dancing. Don't worry, I'll teach you. You'll love it."  
  
"What about my ankle?"  
  
"You think we'd let a silly ankle injury get in the way of our honeymoon? You forget whom you're talking to B'Elanna. I'm Tom Paris, medical assistant extraordinaire."  
  
"You're a nurse."  
  
I can hear the smile in his voice. "It's all semantics, B'Elanna."  
  
"I like our honeymoon already. Tell me about our room."  
  
"It will be on the top floor so we'll have a view of the city. There will be a fireplace and we'll keep it lit all night."  
  
"That sounds wonderful."  
  
"And the bed, it will be a canopy bed, big enough to spread out."  
  
"That sounds cozy."  
  
"Feather pillows, B'Elanna, and a soft comforter."  
  
"I do like it."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yes, really."  
  
"That's what I was thinking," Tom says in that soft voice that I love so much. "But then I thought maybe you'd want to do something else."  
  
I am surprised, pleasantly. I am used to Tom making the arrangements, deciding what we're going to do; occasionally, I will choose a program on the holodeck, but for the most part, he makes the decisions and I go along with him.  
  
"Like what?" I ask.  
  
"Well," Tom says. "We could take a shuttle and see if we can't find a nice M-class planet somewhere. One with a long strip of unspoiled beach and plenty of warm sun."  
  
"I like that."  
  
"I thought you might. And the water, it would be a perfect twenty-two degrees."  
  
"You've thought of everything."  
  
"Including a room on the water," Tom says sotto voce. "Doors open right to the beach. There's plenty of fresh air. Plus, it's quiet and secluded. The ideal spot for two people who haven't had a lot time to spend together."  
  
"That's sweet."  
  
"You deserve this vacation, B'Elanna. I know things haven't been easy for you lately and I know you've been under a lot of stress. This vacation would be exactly what you - we - need."  
  
I pull myself upright, leaning sideways against the tree. Tom's face is blurry and I wish there were more light, something more than the eerie halo of the moon.  
  
"I've been studying star maps, B'Elanna, and I think I've found the perfect spot," Tom goes on, his voice filled with enthusiasm.  
  
"When do we leave?"  
  
"You just need to get to your feet, B'Elanna. If you just get up, we can go. I've already packed our bags."  
  
"I'm trying, Tom, really, I am."  
  
He sighs, heavily. I know that sigh, the one that says he's irritated with me, the one he breathes when I'm being particularly difficult or obtuse.   
  
"I'm sorry," I tell him. "Sorry for everything."  
  
"It's all right. Don't worry. We'll get you out of here."  
  
"You'll have to help me. I can't walk."  
  
"I forgot the medkit. I'll have to go back and get it," Tom stands up. I reach out, reach for his leg.  
  
"Don't leave me," I say. "I'm so cold, so tired, don't leave me here."  
  
"I'll be right back."  
  
"No," I try to grab a handful of the black material of his pants in my hand and come away with nothing.   
  
He is gone.  
  
"Tom?" I call. And then louder, "Tom! Tom!"  
  
I get to my feet and I see a shadow disappearing into the trees. I hop in that direction.  
  
"Tom," I say.  
  
The shadowy figure pauses only for a moment.  
  
"Get up, B'Elanna," the figure with Tom's face and voice says. "Don't give up, not this time, not ever."  
  
And then he is gone.   
  
****  
  
"Tom."  
  
Janeway's voice is a bucket of cold water, almost like your parents intruding on you and your date on Lover's Lane. I jerk back and turn my chair to face the Captain.  
  
"Yes?" I ask.  
  
"It's Harry," she says. I take a look at the small view screen; Harry smiles back at me, wearing   
his very best "I'm in command now" expression.   
  
"Hi," I say to my friend.  
  
"How are you?"  
  
"Stir crazy. You know how it is to spend prolonged time on the Delta Flyer."  
  
"Don't remind me," Harry laughs. "Replicators down, sonic showers offline, dirty dishes in the recycler..."  
  
"Harry, what's going on?" Janeway interrupts, evidently not appreciating the trip down memory lane.   
  
"We received a transmission. Morse code," he says. "From B'Elanna."  
  
"B'Elanna?" I look at Janeway. "Are you sure? She doesn't know Morse code."  
  
Hell, B'Elanna only visited the monochromatic world of Captain Proton that one time to encourage me to take a stand for the Moneans. I considered that one of our good periods, when we were actually making time for each other and were making an effort to compromise; but even then, B'Elanna had no use for role-playing games. I could tell from the slight sneer of her lips, the   
flared nostrils, that she clearly resented the time I spent on the holodeck and especially, she mocked the idea of dressing up as an archaic hero from the comic books.   
  
I'd given her the story line once, along with a role, given her a time to meet, but she had placed the PADD aside, promising to look at it a future time; she never showed up and I never asked.   
  
But I've learned, many times over the past seven years, not to underestimate B'Elanna Torres.  
  
"Positive," Harry says. "It's her. Short, sweet, to the point."  
  
"What does the message say?" Janeway asks.  
  
"She and Chakotay are fine," Harry says. "They are on Alonius Prime."  
  
Janeway, Tuvok and I exchange looks; lady luck is certainly shining on us today.  
  
"And we're only a few hours away," I note.  
  
"This is indeed good news," Tuvok says in typical Vulcan neutrality.   
  
"Anything else, Harry?" Janeway asks.  
  
"Seven has been analyzing the logs from Starbase 87," Harry says. "I think she has something to share with you."  
  
A second later, Seven's aquiline features appear on the viewscreen.  
  
"I have been working to decipher the origin of the Maquis release order," she says.  
  
"It's not important," I say. "We've found B'Elanna, Chakotay and the others."  
  
"Mr. Paris," Janeway says in a warning tone that I know oh too well. Sometimes, my father would speak to me in that voice and I would cringe, hearing only the tone, not the words. He could sing a song using that tone and I would still believe myself to be in for dire punishment.   
  
"Sorry," I answer automatically.  
  
"I used a recursive algorithm to trace the path of the original message," Seven says.  
  
"We already know that," I say. "It came from the console of a dead man. So what?"  
  
"Mr. Paris, some patience would benefit you greatly," Tuvok says.  
  
Seven's sigh is audible as she glares at us.  
  
"That is what someone intended for us to believe," Seven says. "The encryption code identifying that particular workstation was forged. That much is obvious. I have found the original workstation."  
  
"How?" I ask. "I was working on that and it seemed to be an absolute dead end."  
  
"The solution is simple, Lieutenant," Seven says. "I simply traced the route of the release order. When a message is rerouted through the system, it is necessary to route the message through many different hosts. In a normal circumstance, the packet of information would have gone a direct route. However, in this case, the message did not follow the proper protocols," Seven pauses. "The message was intentionally sent through different hosts, with the instructions to mask its presence at the previous host when it arrived at the new host. However, each time the message arrived at its destination, the systems automatically sent a notification back to the previous routing machine."  
  
"Like letting that machine know that it had arrived at the next destination?" I ask.  
  
"Very parental, if you ask me," Harry scoffs.   
  
"That's Starfleet for you," I add in.  
  
Seven ignores Harry and me and continues on her dissertation.  
  
"Due to the randomly changing source addresses, each delivery notification failed," Seven continues. "I simply collected all of those failed notices, noted the addresses and composed an algorithm that simply predicted the possible routing of this message, given the address encryptions on the failure notifications. In this way, I was able to reconstruct the original trail."  
  
"Good work, Seven," Janeway says.   
  
"What did you find?" Tuvok asks.  
  
"The release order came from Admiral Paris."  
  
I lean back in my chair.  
  
"What are you saying, Seven?" Janeway's voice is sharp.  
  
"I do not believe translation is necessary. Admiral Paris ordered the release of the Maquis prisoners and for their removal to Alonius Prime."  
  
"How?" I ask. "Why?"  
  
"I did ask him to help," Janeway muses.  
  
I'm still in shock. My father, not known for his technological aptitude, had somehow managed to route an order in such a way as to appear to come from someone else. The question begs to be   
asked: why the subterfuge?  
  
"You asked him to intercede with the Federation," Tuvok points out. "You did not ask him to release the Maquis, correct?"  
  
"I asked him to make sure that the Maquis were treated fairly and honorably, given their service on Voyager. You are sure this message originated from Admiral Paris?" Janeway asks.  
  
"I have retrieved all of Admiral Paris' logs," Seven responds, visibly insulted that Janeway would doubt her work. "It was cleverly done, but the binary signature of his logs are identical to those of the release logs. The Admiral neglected to match that particular signature to that of Lieutenant Sullivan's logs. In addition, I have found correspondence from Lieutenant Sullivan in Admiral Paris' system."  
  
I'm still unable to speak, unable to digest what Seven is saying. Somehow, my proud, upstanding, morally uptight father is linked to this whole sorry mess.  
And I thought the Delta Quadrant was peculiar.  
  
"How was this possible?" Tuvok asks.  
  
"It appears that Admiral Paris used a simple client-server protocol to log on to Lieutenant Sullivan's workstation," Seven continues. "With his security clearance, he was able to feed it the proper protocols in order to reroute the message. He disabled Lieutenant Sullivan's host machine so he could impersonate that machine's identification number to send the message. Leaving the lieutenant's machine online would have made the subsequent forgery impossible to send."   
  
I sit back in my chair, absolutely stunned. As a child, you understand your parents to be simple people. It is difficult to understand that they might have had a life before you and it's even more difficult to see them as individuals with their own skills and personalities. You don't see things about your parents because you are so engrossed in your own life, your wants and needs.   
  
And when something - something like this - comes up, you can only wonder if you ever knew your parent. It's only now that I realize that my father may have been someone more than the strict, authoritative Starfleet "yes" man. And in a way, it hurts, hurts so much that he is dead and there could have been so much more for me to discover about him.   
  
I inhale deeply.  
  
"Is there anything else?" Janeway asks crisply.  
  
"Just the logs, Captain," Harry says. "We thought, um, that Tom would like to, um, go through them. We noticed some personal logs, including a message for Tom."  
  
Janeway looks over at me. "Okay with you, Lieutenant?"  
  
"Fine." There's a desert in my mouth, the Sahara, to be exact. I swallow hard, but there is no saliva for moisture.   
  
"Uploading to the Delta Flyer now," Seven says. While my console is busy, I take the time to escape to the replicator and get a glass of water. I gulp it down, trying to block out Tuvok and Janeway's conversation. Seven inserts her own two cents every now and then, her precise words tight and inflexible in the narrow confines of the Delta Flyer. There is no room for anything with Seven, no emotion, no judgement, no error. You get what you see with her and nothing more.   
  
She could easily walk over a corpse and not feel a shiver up her spine.   
  
I take a deep breath and head back to my seat.   
  
"Admiral McArthur has been trying to contact you. He's getting impatient," Harry says. "And you also have some confidential messages from Starfleet Headquarters. I'm transmitting them to you now."  
  
"Thank you," Janeway says. Her tone implies that Admiral McArthur deserves nothing less than her complete and total ignorance. If only the rest of us could be so lucky. Anything else, Harry?"  
  
"Not right now."  
  
"Keep us informed. Delta Flyer out."  
  
Harry and Seven disappear from our viewscreens. Janeway and Tuvok are both profoundly quiet, their silence telling. I imagine they are waiting for me to speak, maybe for me to reveal something about my father and his odd connection to the Maquis. But the truth is, I don't have any idea.  
  
The last time I saw my father was right after the hearing about Caldik Prime. He looked at me, his gaze steely and uncaring. We stood in the hallway, right after it had been announced that my Starfleet career was over, and even though we were only a meter apart, it might as well have been a thousand light years. My father was wearing his dress uniform as if he felt the need to be formal and dignified at the unceremonious departure of his only son from Starfleet.   
  
"Say something," I implored. For once in my life, I wanted my father to be soft; I didn't want a hero, I wanted a father.  
  
He looked right through me. Honestly. His gaze went through skin, bones, heart, lungs, and right out the other side.   
  
"I never expected this of you, Tom," my father said. "What you did, it was a disgrace to the Paris name."  
  
"It was an accident!" I nearly screamed the words. People in the hallway stopped and stared, but I didn't care. I wanted everyone to know that I hadn't meant Caldik Prime to happen; I only wanted to try something new. Did they really think I meant for people to die? Did everyone who had ever come in contact with me think so little of me?  
  
"You disappoint me," my father said.  
  
You disappoint me. Not "You disappointed me and now you're forgiven," but no, the words were coolly stated in the present tense. You disappoint me.  
  
With that, my father turned away from me and walked out of my life, the heels of his shiny black   
Starfleet boots echoing with each step.   
  
"Tom, I can take over," Janeway says kindly.   
  
"Thanks," I get up from my seat. I appreciate her offer because I do want to read my father's last words in private. Maybe there is something there I can salvage.  
  
I'd hate for my last memory of my father to be that encounter in the hallway.   
Janeway puts her hand on my arm.  
  
"Something wrong, Tom?" she asks.  
  
I think she knows. I offer a weak semblance of a smile.   
  
"You're wrong," she says. "Trust me on this one."  
  
"I hope you're right."  
  
"I know I am. I saw him, Tom, and I talked to him."  
  
"I would hate for him to have died thinking I'm a disappointment."  
  
"He didn't. You've got to believe me. I wouldn't lie to you, Tom. Not about this."  
"But about other things?" I tease her because a lump is forming in my throat. Another bit of kindness from her and I will probably start bawling right there.  
  
And that's one thing I learned from my father: Paris men don't cry.  
  
****  
  
The heat is oppressive. I roll over onto my back and stare up into red-tinged sky. The orange clouds are raining, misting in hues of pinks and mandarins. I get to my feet. Around me, the trees are singed, the tops of them burned off. All around me, lava flows.  
  
I take a step back; amazingly, my ankle is completely healed.   
  
"B'Elanna Miral puqbe!"  
  
I turn. A heavy set Klingon faces me, holding up a bat'leth.  
  
"Daughter of Miral, defend yourself!" he yells.  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
"You know who I am."  
  
"Kortar!"  
  
"Very good."  
  
"Where am I?"  
  
"You've been here before."  
  
I look around and recognize the flowing rivers of blood and lava. The heat wraps itself around me, making it difficult to even breathe. Under my feet, the ground heaves and I realize that the solid feeling of earth is gone, replaced by metal grid flooring.   
  
"gre'thor," I say. "Why did you bring me here? I have redeemed my mother's honor."  
  
"Who says we brought you here for your mother?"  
  
"Then why did you bring me here?"  
  
"Defend yourself!" Kortar twirls the bat'leth with amazing skill. He lunges toward me, but I duck out of his way.  
  
"Who is it?" I pant. "Please, tell me! Is it my mother? Did I not do everything required?"  
  
"Your mother? Ha!"  
  
The voice comes from behind me; I turn. It's a Cardassian boy, his facial ridges still soft and forming.  
  
"Do you remember me, B'Elanna Torres?" he taunts. "You who deprived my mother of her pride and joy? You who are responsible for the tears my mother sheds each night? Do you remember me as my mother surely remembers you?"  
  
"What are you doing here?"  
  
"You killed me without thinking twice," the boy continues. "Do you think of me at night? Do I haunt your dreams? Do I disturb your sleep?"  
  
"Go away!" I scream. "Go!"  
  
"Defend yourself!" the Cardassian raises a disrupter, but his hand is sliced off with a clean sweep of the bat'leth. The Klingon laughs as the Cardassian screams, as blood drips from the stub of his arm.  
  
"Thank you," I say. "I think."  
  
From my last visit to gre'thor, I know that death here is possible. At least then, I knew what I was dying for; at this moment, I am completely baffled.  
  
"You are not finished, daughter of Miral," the Klingon growls. "You have dishonored your family name. You are no warrior."  
  
"I am a warrior!"  
  
"quv Hutlh HoHbogh tlhIngan 'ach qabDaj 'angbe'bogh!"  
  
My mind stumbles over the words as I mentally translate: A Klingon does not kill without showing his face.  
  
"That's not true!" I scream. "I never did that!"  
  
"Do you remember this?"  
  
A second later we are transported to a forest, lush and green. The Cardassians are camped around a fire and a second later, an explosive tears the reptilian humanoids apart at the cellular level.  
  
"What do you say now, daughter of Miral?" Kortar taunts.  
  
"They would have killed us! If we didn't strike first, if we didn't hit them hard first, they would have taken us! The Cardassians showed us no mercy!"  
  
"You say that even as you struck down a defenseless boy!"  
  
"He was not defenseless! He would have killed my friends! nIteb Qob qaD jup 'e' chaw'be' SuvwI'!"  
  
Kortar's fat lips turn up into a sneer.  
  
"Well said, daughter of Miral. A warrior does not let a friend face danger alone. So you call yourself a warrior now, do you? Have you achieved the honor necessary? I doubt it!" he snarls.  
  
"You know I did! I would have died for my mother!"  
  
"And what about them?" Kortar waves his arm and all of a sudden, there are hundreds of humanoids surrounding us. All of them wear the armor of the Borg, but their faces, their faces are their own. They are all holding their hands out to me, their voices rising and falling as one.  
  
"B'Elanna Torres!" they chant my name. "Remember us?"  
  
"Who are they?" I look desperately at Kortar. Sweat runs down my back as I survey the group surrounding me. I turn around, nearly making myself dizzy.  
  
"We were individuals," the crowd chants.   
  
"I didn't have control over my actions! I tried not to!" I scream at Kortar. He shrugs and holds up the bat'leth again.  
  
"B'Elanna, daughter of Miral, defend yourself!"  
  
"No!" I scream. I drop to my knees. There are more people here now and some of them are wearing   
Starfleet uniforms. A few of them are holding glasses.  
  
"Here's to B'Elanna Torres," one Starfleet officer holds up a glass. "She talks about honor but does not know the meaning of the word."  
  
"Hear, hear!" another voice chimes in. "She has left a trail of blood in her wake and thinks nothing of it."  
  
"Why are you doing this to me?" I yell.  
  
A familiar figure rises up from the mists, standing much taller than her 1.5 meters. Her straggly gray hair hangs past her shoulders, her eyes narrow, and she takes a few strides towards me.  
  
"Grandmother!" I scream.  
  
"muHlIj DawIvpu', vaj yISuv!" my grandmother says severely. "You have made your choice, now you must deal with the consequences of your actions. Can you do that, B'Elanna? For me?"  
  
"I accept what I have done, Grandmother," I say.   
  
"Have you?" the Starfleet chorus chants as one. "B'Elanna Torres, Maquis rebel, Borg drone, engineer, daughter, lover..."  
  
"Or do you believe what you want to believe?" my grandmother's question is soft, tender - much like she was, despite that tough Klingon exterior. There were times when my mother was my only comfort, the only one who truly loved me. But now, dressed all in black against the backdrop of flames, she looks menacing.  
  
"may'meyDajvo' Haw'be' tlhIngan," Kortar says. He drops his bloody bat'leth and extends his   
  
hand. "A Klingon doesn't postpone a matter of honor. B'Elanna Torres, will you let us help you?"  
I take his hand and pull myself up. New faces have appeared in the crowd. Chakotay, Janeway, Neelix, Tuvok, Harry, Tom and Seven. They are all leering at me. Tuvok is shaking his head.  
  
"If only you would meditate," he says.  
  
"If only you would listen to me," Chakotay says.  
  
"I can help you, B'Elanna," Neelix comments.   
  
"You push me away," Tom says.  
  
Seven shrugs. "This discussion is irrelevant. You are irrelevant."  
  
"I'm your friend," Harry puts in.  
  
I turn to Kortar.  
  
"Make them stop," I tell him. "Please."  
  
The Borgified individuals surge towards me, a wave of blinking lights and body armor, their tubules extended in pre-assimilation mode. I back away. Kortar spins his bat'leth.  
  
"Defend yourself!"  
  
"Stop saying that!"  
  
"Defend yourself!"  
  
"I can't! I'm tired! I don't want to do this anymore! Please!" I brace myself against the railing. On the other side, the rivers of lava flow; foul smelling steam drifts up to sting my nostrils. I lean over the railing. All I have to do is sit on it and release my grip.  
  
"What are you doing?" Tom screams as I heave myself up.  
  
"There is only one B'Elanna Torres!" Janeway insists.  
  
"Redeem your honor!" Kortar bellows. Beneath me, the railing is unpleasantly warm.  
  
"How? I don't know!"  
  
""QaghmeylIj tIchID, yIyoH ," my grandmother puts in. "Admit your mistakes!"  
  
"Ask!" Tuvok adds.  
  
"Ask what?" I look from face to face frantically. "What do you want of me?"  
  
"B'Elanna Torres cannot be redeemed. She is a violent personality, prone to mood swings and temper tantrums," Seven says clinically. "She refuses to accept help and will not ask for forgiveness to salve her own burning conscience. She cannot be saved."  
  
"meQtaHbogh qachDaq Suv qoH neH," Kortar adds. "Only a fool would fight in a burning house. You must accept this, daughter of Miral."  
  
"You don't need to fight it, B'Elanna," Tom yells. "Not anymore!"   
  
"Ask!" Neelix pleads.  
  
The Cardassian boy advances towards me.   
  
"B'Elanna Torres is ruthless. She assimilates without conscience. She kills without thought. She cannot be forgiven," Seven continues.  
  
"Hear, hear!" Chakotay leers at me.   
  
"No! That's not true!" I scream back. "It's not! Please!"  
  
"Please what?" Tom asks.   
  
"You!" I point my finger at Tom. "You never tell me what you want and you never show that you need me! Tell me, please, what do you want? What do you all want?"  
  
"Lanna, it's not what we want," Janeway says in a soft voice. "What do you want? What do you need?"  
  
It is quiet, save for the splash of meteorites into the flames below. Everyone drops their weapons, eyes trained on me. Perspiration drips from my forehead and my throat is parched. I survey them all, from the small children fingering their Borg implants to the haughty officers, blood still staining their Starfleet uniforms, circa 2371.  
  
"Say it!" Kortar breaks the silence.  
  
"Please!" Tom pleads.  
  
"Forgive me," I whisper. "Please... forgive me."  
  
They all start laughing, advancing to me.  
  
"Forgiveness, I want your forgiveness," I continue. "From all of you, please."  
  
All of them, with their blood expressions and detached expressions, grin wickedly at me. My sweaty palms slip. I scream, but manage to hold on with my legs. I pull myself upright.  
  
"Why should we forgive you?" Chakotay asks.  
  
"I never meant..." I start and then pause. Their eyes glow red at me, their teeth shining in the golden-red glow that is gre'thor. "My actions were - are - inexcusable."  
  
"You killed me!" the Cardassian boy accuses.  
  
"Here's to B'Elanna Torres!" the Starfleet officers hold up their glasses to me.   
  
"I'm asking now! Please forgive me!" I scream, but the mob of the dead advances steadily, their eyes bright with revenge and hate.   
  
"I meant to raise a warrior," my grandmother says mournfully. "Never has there been dishonor   
such as this in my house."  
  
"Murderer!" the half-assimilated drones yell.  
  
"Murder, the unlawful killing of another human being with malice afterthought," Tuvok says coolly.  
  
I hold up my hands, which are now dripping with blood.  
  
"Killer!" the Cardassian boy reappears, his hand now reattached to his body.  
  
"To deprive any living thing of life in any manner," Tuvok says.  
  
"What do you want me to do?" I look at Tom, Harry, Seven, Neelix, all of them, wanting just a hint of what is needed of me.  
  
"There is only one B'Elanna Torres!" Janeway yells.  
  
"What do I do?" I implore Kortar.  
  
He advances towards me, his bat'leth in one hand, a mek'leth in the other.  
  
"There is only one option now for B'Elanna Miral puqbe," Kortar says menacingly.  
  
My grip loosens on the rail.  
  
"B'Elanna!" Tom screams.   
  
"Murderer!" the Starfleet officers chant.  
  
I let myself fall.  
  
****  
  
We land the shuttle on Alonius Prime instead of beaming down because the dampening field makes transporters unreliable.   
  
The Maquis settlement is quiet, rather gray in appearance and architecture, and for a moment, I wonder if anyone actually lives here because it is so devoid of personality.  
  
The land is fairly flat, brown, the few weeds swaying in the wind. In the distance, I see a line of tall trees, nearly black against the gray horizon.   
  
"Quiet, isn't it?" I ask.   
  
"I wonder..." Janeway bites her lip.   
  
"You are considering the possibility that the Maquis have been removed," Tuvok states.  
  
But Tuvok's statement is discounted when a familiar figure comes out of a building and walks towards us.  
  
"Chakotay," Janeway breathes. I look at her curiously. There has been speculation about her relationship with the first officer for years and I have always been one to doubt that their feelings for each other are anything more than platonic. But, as B'Elanna is so often fond of pointing out to me, I have been wrong before.  
  
There are a few others following Chakotay and we quicken our step towards them.  
  
"Captain," Chakotay says. "Commander, Lieutenant."  
  
There is a formality in his tone that I have not heard in a long time.   
  
"How are you?" Janeway stops just short of putting her hand on Chakotay's chest. Instead, she puts it behind her back, a rather silly way of covering up what she really wanted to do. I look at the people behind Chakotay, recognizing some of them from my short stint with the Maquis.   
  
"We're good," Chakotay says.   
  
I look around, still not seeing B'Elanna. Ayala, Chell, Gerron, McKenzie, Tabor, they are all here and they are excited to see us.   
  
"Tom Paris."  
  
I turn to face Herid Jessup.   
  
There are some people, no matter how many years pass, whom you would recognize in a heartbeat; Jessup is one of those. I see that broad Ktarian face, his large eyes and wide lips, and that familiar sense of dislike bubbles up in my throat.   
  
We never got along. I guess that would be an understatement, or rather, the universal truth, of my time with the Maquis. But with Jessup, the animosity was particularly strong. Once, he happened to sit by me when we were eating and he said, "Just because your father got you back into the Academy doesn't mean you have any pull here."  
  
"I didn't say that I did," I told him.  
  
"Just checking."  
  
"Believe me, I have no illusions. And for your information, what happened at the Academy is irrelevant. I'm not welcome in Starfleet anymore so my Academy past shouldn't matter."  
  
"As long as we're clear."  
  
"We're clear," I told Jessup.  
  
I did know that Jessup and B'Elanna were involved at that time, though I thought the feelings were largely on his end, not hers. She tended not to notice him except for when he happened to be glued to her side and even then, she was short-tempered and irritated with him. It was, I noted then, not a relationship made in heaven.  
  
"I'm glad you're here," Jessup says to me. I look at him curiously. Things have changed, yes, but as far I know, there hasn't been a blizzard in hell for millennia. For a moment, my jealousy radar goes online, wondering if maybe in the space of five short days, B'Elanna and Herid have rekindled their soggy relationship. I dismiss the thought, knowing that the two of them getting back together is like setting a flame to green wood, all smoke and no spark.   
  
"Good to see you too, Jessup," I say heartily, injecting false enthusiasm into my voice. "You   
haven't changed a bit."  
  
"Nor have you," Jessup looks me up and down. "Gained a little weight, have you?"  
  
I glare at him. "That must be a record for you, Herid. You waited all of three minutes before insulting me. I'm impressed. Now where's B'Elanna?"  
  
Jessup's face drops its mask of scorn and takes on expression of extreme concern.  
  
"What's wrong?" I ask in alarm.  
  
"B'Elanna's sick," Jessup says. He takes my arm. "She's been out for the last twenty-eight hours."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Come with me. You have medical training, right?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Jessup walks a step ahead of me, probably so we don't have to engage in meaningless conversation. It doesn't matter to me; after all this time, I still have nothing to say to these Maquis. Their expressions of scorn still remain even after all of these years. I can only pray that B'Elanna does not feel the same.  
  
In the Infirmary, I find B'Elanna lying on a biobed, covered up to mid-chest with an insulted blanket. I touch her cheek, which is pink with fever.  
  
"She's burning up," I say. "What happened?"  
  
"We went to the generator complex to send the signal to Voyager and she broke her ankle. I came back to get help and when Chakotay and I went back, we found her lying passed out on the ground. We don't know what happened."  
  
I grab a tricorder and quickly evaluate B'Elanna. She is running an unusually high fever, and her neural activity is rapid, neurons firing at an incredibly fast rate. Light perspiration coats her face. I pick up her hand and note the large red welt, which covers most of her forearm.  
  
"What is this?" I ask.  
  
"She was bitten by a bug," Jessup says. "Looks like an allergic reaction of some kind."  
  
I turn my attention back to the tricorder. I have seen these readings before, somewhere...   
  
"I need something to bring down the fever," I say. Jessup nods. He points to a cabinet.  
  
"We've tried everything we know," he says. I open the cabinet and survey the drugs available. Most of them are standard antibiotics and a couple that have been deemed ineffective. I turn to look at Jessup and he shrugs.  
  
"Apparently the health of the Maquis is inconsequential to the Federation," I note with a trace of bitterness.  
  
"We've never seen anything like this before," Jessup continues. I quickly take B'Elanna's readings once again. In some ways, they remind of the time when B'Elanna decided to vacation in gre'thor to lift her mother's dishonor.  
  
We had almost lost her then and later when we were in my quarters, B'Elanna had told me that she had been prepared to die for her mother.  
  
"How can you say that?" I argued with her.   
  
"It's the Klingon way, Tom. Dishonor, of any kind, it stays with you. I didn't want to be responsible for that, not for my mother's dishonor."  
  
"So what about you? What if you had died?"  
  
"It would not have mattered to me."  
  
"I want to understand, B'Elanna, but sometimes I just can't," I told her. "I almost lost you today and it scares me to think that we might not have been sitting here, having this conversation."  
  
"I'm sorry you feel that way," B'Elanna said. "But you have to understand. Sometimes, I have to do things for me, for my culture, and I can't always do or be what you want."   
  
She got up from the sofa and went into the bedroom while I sat there, head in hands, wondering what I was going to do with my headstrong lover. More importantly, I wondered what I would do without her.  
  
She was already under the covers when I came in and I could tell by her rapid breathing that she was pretending to sleep. I slipped in beside B'Elanna, wrapping my arms around her  
  
"You're right, B'Elanna," I whispered to her. "It's not always about me. I wish it could be, but I have to accept that you make your own decisions and I don't necessarily have a say in them. I just want you to know that... that I do care about what happens to you and I don't, I really don't want to have to do this again."  
  
She was silent for a moment and then rolled over onto her back so that she was looking directly at me.  
  
"Thank you," she said. She cupped my cheek in her warm palm. "But don't hold me to promises I won't be able to keep."  
  
"Tom?" Jessup's tone is urgent. He hovers over B'Elanna, an expression of acute dismay crossing his face. "Can't you do anything?"  
  
"I'm going to transmit these readings to Voyager," I say. "The Doctor will be able to help."  
  
I take B'Elanna's hot hand in mine and then lean over to brush my lips over those Klingon ridges she despises so much. I'm very aware of Jessup's eyes on us and I look up at him, still   
clutching B'Elanna's hand to my chest.  
  
"You hurt her, I'll hunt you down," Jessup says evenly.  
  
"I don't doubt it," I tell him. "I'll be back."  
  
Jessup holds up a hand. "Give me the tricorder. You stay with B'Elanna."  
  
We look at each other with a bit of suspicion but then I relent. Whatever Jessup feels for me, he has never harbored any ill will towards B'Elanna, even though she did not treat him well. Like me, he only wants her to get well.  
  
"I never thought I'd say this," he says. "But I'm glad you're here."  
  
Jessup leaves. I pull up the lone chair in the Infirmary to B'Elanna's bio-bed. She is absolutely still.  
  
"B'Elanna," I say. "I'm here."  
  
I lift her hand to my lips.   
  
"Please," I whisper. "I don't want to have to beg."  
  
Her only response is a raspy breath. It's not the answer I was hoping for, but for now, it will have to do.  
  
~ End Part III ~ 


	3. Dawn

Dawn  
  
I loved the mirrors. The mirrors in the traveling carnival that came to Bloomington every fall, that is. You had your usual assortment of freaks from across the galaxies, like Klingons without forehead ridges or silver Bolians and of course, the staple of a two-headed Terran.   
  
The carnival also offered the usual array of dizzying, nausea-inducing rides including my nemesis, the zero gravity spinner. Take a tumble in that one and it was nearly impossible to walk a straight line afterwards.  
  
But the mirrors, now those attracted me. We - my sister and I - would walk into the funny house, fingers clenched into a fist, giddy with anticipation but already tense with fear and excitement. Every funny house had the usual assortment of strange noises, slimy things to touch and creaking floor boards, but the end - those mirrors, now that's what excited me.  
  
There were mirrors that elongated, that distorted, that shrunk - all of it casting a strange illusion on reality. In a word, it was... disconcerting.  
  
I only bring up the carnival because that same feeling of confusion is very apparent now as Chakotay and I stare at each other.   
  
In the past, we have had our arguments, our inability to see eye to eye, but this, but this is different. In just a few short days, he has changed. I don't know how I know this - I just do. He looks different, more relaxed, more confident, and he looks comfortable. Comfortable as in he belongs here, has always belonged here.  
  
Comfortable as he never appeared during our seven years together.  
  
Damn, that hurts. Really, truly hurts in a way I didn't think possible. If Chakotay is aware of the tension between us, he gives no sign as he looks at me, impassively and unemotionally.  
  
"How are you?" I ask formally, only slightly aware of a Ktarian leading Paris away and of Tuvok hovering over my right shoulder.  
  
"Good," Chakotay says. "I'm glad you're here."   
  
"Have they treated you well?"   
  
"Well enough. It has been... confusing, to say the least."   
  
"I'd agree with that."   
  
"Come, let's go somewhere warm," Chakotay says. "The chill gets under your skin after a while."  
  
Chakotay leads the way, with the other Maquis falling in behind him. I don't know if it's an unconscious decision on their part, but they - Chell, Gerron and Ayala - look to Chakotay as their leader; it's strange because for seven years, they viewed me as such. But I suppose, it's like leaving the funny house - I enjoyed a surrealistic experience for a long period of time and now, well, now things were back the way they had been before the Caretaker.  
  
The Maquis have apparently made the best of their situation; the buildings are functional if not attractive. They have opted for efficiency in design and layout, aligning most of their structures on either side of the dirt road. At the head of the road is the building that Chakotay grandly refers to as the meeting house.   
  
We climb the three steps up and immediately are assailed by a cloud of warm air.   
  
"I didn't realize I was so cold," I confess as Chakotay indicates a bench.   
  
"Can I get you coffee?" he asks. I suppose he thinks my answer is a foregone conclusion because he heads immediately to the replicator. I look at Tuvok, who shrugs.   
  
"This is... interesting," Tuvok says in that careful way he uses when he's trying so hard not make judgments.   
  
The interior of the meeting hall is simple - several rows of tables and benches arranged in two columns running the length of the room. There are six windows - two on the long wall, one each on the shorter walls and the remaining two on either side of the door. The Maquis did not decorate this room in any way. There are no personal effects, no homey touches. This last realization saddens me in a way that I did not think possible.  
  
"Here," Chakotay hands me a steaming mug. I take a sip. He has   
replicated it exactly the way I like - French Roast, served black with two spoons of sugar.   
  
"Thank you," I say. I look around.   
  
"We were worried," Chakotay says. He takes the seat opposite of mine. "We saw the explosion. Felt it, actually, and no one would tell us what happened to Voyager. It's good to see you, Captain."  
  
"We felt the same," I say. "We didn't know if you made it or not. Only that an order had been submitted for your release. However, no one would tell us if you had been released at all."  
  
"I'm surprised they didn't just leave us on that station," Chakotay says with a trace of uncharacteristic bitterness. "That would have solved the Maquis problem."  
  
"Curious." Tuvok tips his head to the side. "Indeed, if it had not been for Admiral Paris' intervention, it is doubtful you and the others would have been released."  
  
"Admiral Paris?" Chakotay asks in confusion. "What about him?"   
  
"It's a long story," I say. I restrain the urge to cover his hand with mine and it takes so much willpower to keep from reaching across the table to run my hands through his black hair.  
  
"We're still trying to figure it out ourselves. Needless to say, the events of the past six days have been extraordinary."  
  
"We had much to discuss," Tuvok says primly. "And we do not have a lot of time. There have been some questions raised -"  
  
The door opens and the Ktarian stands there, data PADD in hand.   
  
"Jessup," Chakotay says. "Captain, this is Herid Jessup. Jessup, Kathryn Janeway, and this is Commander Tuvok."   
  
"Nice to meet you," Jessup says in a voice that implies otherwise.   
  
"What is it?" Chakotay asks, clearly irritated at the interruption.   
  
"I need some assistance in the Delta Flyer," Jessup says. "Tom Paris thinks that the EMH can help B'Elanna. He wants to download the program to the Infirmary."   
  
"B'Elanna?" I ask. "What's wrong with her?"   
  
"We found her unconscious," Chakotay says. "Possibly an allergic reaction to an insect bite, but I'm beginning to think that it might be something more dire. She and Jessup went to signal Voyager and she was injured. When we went back to get her, we found her in delirium, screaming about forgiveness. Unfortunately we have not been able to treat her illness with the supplies we have now."  
  
"How serious is her condition?" I ask the Ktarian sharply. He shakes his head.  
  
"It doesn't look good," Jessup answers.  
  
"I will assist you." Tuvok gets up from his seat. "Captain, Commander."   
  
Jessup shoots Chakotay an irate look, possibly at the mention of the title "Commander." I shouldn't be surprised; old feelings do not fade easily or without pain.  
  
With Tuvok and Jessup gone, an awkward silence - the type that usually follows the typical "I'm right, you're wrong" arguments - descends.   
  
Finally, I reach across the table and cover Chakotay's hand with mine.  
  
"Hi," I say very softly. He offers up a smile, shy but sincere. I note, with a pang, that his smile doesn't quite make it up to his eyes, and that, that worries me. "I - how have you been?"  
  
"Cold," he says. "Worried."  
  
"You said that before," I remind him. He pulls his hand away.   
  
"Sorry," he says. "How is the coffee?"  
  
"Perfect."  
  
"Good."  
  
I take a deep breath. "I've missed you, Chakotay."  
  
He raises an eyebrow. "What?"  
  
"You heard me. I was... I missed having you around. I can't figure out what's going on and that disturbs me. There are pieces, but no picture. I thought, I thought if I could talk to you, maybe you would be able to guide me in the right direction. You've always been so good at showing me how things fit together. I missed... your advice."  
  
"Glad you acknowledge that."   
  
Bitterness edges his voice, a deep-seeded resentment. I think about all of the times we have gone toe to toe and of all the times, I ignored his counsel. And with a pang of shame, I remember clearly relieving him of duty - an action I've never been proud of and have never apologized for.  
  
"I know we've disagreed in the past," I tell him quietly. "Sometimes violently. We've been able to get past all of that, Chakotay. I need... I want your support. I need to know that you're with me, whatever happens now, I'd like to know that you are there."  
  
"You don't have to doubt my loyalty, Kathryn."  
  
"I wasn't. I didn't know if things had changed now that you were back with the Maquis."  
  
"I don't mind being here, if that's what you are asking. I know the Federation doesn't want me, and hell, after what I went through with your Starfleet-"  
  
"My Starfleet?" I ask sharply. "What are you talking about, Chakotay?"  
  
"You forget that for seven years you commanded a Starfleet ship. Starfleet on the surface, Kathryn. Beneath, it was something else. Maybe there was a bit of a Maquis undercurrent and we pledged our allegiance to Starfleet because we had no other choice. I hate to break it to you, but we Maquis, sometimes we felt suffocated by the Starfleet attitudes, that stiff adherence to laws that did not quite apply to our situation. We never thought we had to die for Starfleet, but then your fatalistic outlook was one thing I never admired about you."  
  
He knits his fingers together and focuses down on the table's metallic surface. I take a sip of the coffee and then put the mug down.  
  
"I'm glad you're finally being honest with me," I tell him.   
  
He shrugs. "I've had a lot of time to think, Kathryn. Fresh air, it has a way of clearing the mind."  
  
There's something - a tiny note of self-realization - in his voice, that catches my attention.  
  
"I've been thinking also, and I still don't regret any of it. Chakotay, I need your help. I want to find out what's going on, and I think you might hold the missing part."  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
"Admiral Paris and I had a conversation prior to the destruction of the starbase. He mentioned something to me, something a scheme involving Starfleet officers and border colonists."  
  
Chakotay shakes his head. "Doesn't sound familiar."  
  
His tone is easy, almost lazy in its intonation.   
  
"Think," I lean forward. "Some officers in Starfleet, after the treaty was signed, offered their protection for a fee. The protection never came through, the Cardassians ran roughshod over the colonists while the Federation turned its back on its own citizens. The Maquis came into being, yet there were Starfleet officers out there, collecting sums for a service that would never be rendered. Who were they, Chakotay?"  
  
Chakotay looks at some point over my shoulder, deliberately averting my gaze.  
  
"Chakotay?" I ask very softly.  
  
"Let me talk to the others," Chakotay says. "Maybe they know."  
  
Yeah right, I think. Chakotay has never been a terrific liar; a few days on a frozen planet haven't changed Chakotay's lack of ability to deceive me.   
  
We sit in silence for a few minutes and then I clear my throat.  
  
"Chakotay," I say. "I meant what I said, about wanting your help and support."  
  
"I know and I appreciate it."  
  
"But?"  
  
"Maybe we should go check on B'Elanna," Chakotay suggests quickly. "I'd like to see if Tom has diagnosed what's wrong with her."  
  
"You're avoiding me," I tell him. "Don't worry. We'll continue this conversation at another time."  
  
"I don't doubt it," he answers evenly.  
  
~ end part I ~  
  
****  
  
B'Elanna's chest rises and falls in an even cadence. Her cheeks are tinged pink, warm with fever, and her eyes are slightly open.   
  
I note that her elbow joint is stiffening, possibly as a result of the insect bite. I grab a tricorder and note with dismay that indeed, she has arthritis in that joint now.   
  
At least she won't be so quick with that bat'leth.  
  
But by the same token, she'll be slower when she puts her arms around me.   
  
God, B'Elanna.  
  
You never realize how much you want - need - someone until you face the very real possibility of losing that person. You always take the person you love for granted, never even telling her that you love her, until it's almost too late.  
  
I didn't know.  
  
I didn't realize.  
  
But I suppose that's another trait I get from my father.  
  
I'd like to think he wasn't a cold, self-centered, self-serving bastard, but my father never gave me any indication to think otherwise. When he was home, he'd lock himself in his study, coming out only long enough for meals. He seemed intent on avoiding my sisters and me at all costs; he would ask about our day in the most general of terms and not really seeming to listen to anything we had to say. When we misbehaved, like most parents, he would stand in front of us, clearly detailing our infractions, and the tone of his voice would make us shiver with fear.   
  
My father never hit me.  
  
I want to make that clear.  
  
He never even raised his voice to me.  
  
Instead, he would talk at me in this evenly modulated voice and he would speak in grammatically correct sentences, complete with clipped accents and a sharp edge. Every conversation with him ended the same way.  
  
"How do you think you're going to get into Starfleet Academy if you keep going like this?" he would say. "If you keep getting in trouble, you'll never make anything of yourself."  
  
And yeah, that point belonged to him - I give him that much. There were nights when I would lie in bed and stare up at the ceiling, wondering what would happen to me if I failed math or history again.   
  
So I learned, in my father's presence, to be brief, brilliant and gone; I would make my escape before he could push me further or ask me questions that would delve deeper into some issue I wanted to avoid.  
  
The year I turned sixteen, my father spotted the first strands of gray in his hair. By the time I graduated from high school, his hair turned completely white; I'd like to think that some of my antics were responsible for this change of pigmentation, but that might be giving me - and not genetics - a bit more credit than necessary.  
  
I rebelled for a very simple reason.  
  
My father wanted a Starfleet boy; that much was evident. He stood over my shoulder as I typed up my Academy application and he even found (bribed?) colleagues to supply references. Never hurt to have an Admiral as a father.   
  
I never told my father I didn't want to go to the Academy. That I would go was assumed and so every conversation with him was on that topic. I suppose I was so grateful that my father even wanted to talk to me that I clung to that topic of Starfleet Academy and hoped one day, I would make him proud so we could talk of other things.  
  
The day I left for the Academy was my father's proudest moment. His eyes glittered with an emotion I found unfamiliar and unsettling and he even wrapped his arms around me in a suffocating hug, nearly crushing my ribs in the process.  
  
"Make me proud," he said.  
  
Well, we know how that story turned out.   
  
That one time I got expelled, yeah, I expected Daddy to get me back in. And he did. Through clenched teeth, he explained to the dean that I did not mean to cheat on that Mechanics of Thermodynamics exam; rather, I'd given into stress and the temptation of "borrowing" an answer or two from Elizabeth Nagol was overwhelming.  
  
I sat there the entire time with this artificial expression of contrition - one that I had practiced many times in the mirror - slapped on my face.  
  
So back into the Academy I went, and this time, made it through without any serious mishaps. I graduated and my father attended, in full dress uniform. I even have a holoimage of this great moment in Tom Paris' life - my father, his arm around my shoulder, grinning broadly, and me, looking very much like I'd rather be shooting pool at Sandrine's.  
  
"Well done," my father said that day. "I'm proud of you, Tom."  
  
"Thank you, sir."  
  
"Keep it up."  
  
"I will."  
  
I broke this promise to my father in the mess that went down in history as Caldik Prime.  
I think everyone needs a Caldik Prime to their credit. Without the body count, of course. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.   
  
At the very least, surviving something like that makes you care a hell of a lot less.  
  
I remember the day of my hearing, sitting in front of the tribunal, without really seeing the three JAGs at all. I really did believe these proceedings were a mere formality; once again, my father would get me out of this one. He was seated in the back row, and I had to restrain myself from twisting around to see him. I knew what I'd get if I turned - classic Paris steely glare.   
  
Damn, we were blessed with baby blues, and maybe God meant for us to attract the opposite sex with them, but my father, he just drilled right through me with those eyes of his; I swear I could feel that gaze in my intestines, liver, spleen. You name it, his disappointment in me become a part of my internal organs. There was nothing I could do to escape the anger in his eyes or in his voice, no matter how dangerously calm he sounded.   
  
At the time, I speculated that maybe it was a godsend that there were three Starfleet security officers assigned to me, otherwise my father would have made good use of that largely ceremonial phaser he wore at his waist.  
  
So yes, when the discharge came, I was shocked. Knocked speechless, really. For once in my life, there was no joke at the tip of my tongue, no easy quip ready to fly out. Just utter silence.   
  
All eyes were on me as I rose and when I turned, I noted that my father, always so proud, was sitting in the back row, his head cradled in his hands.  
  
I became real good at running away. Hell, if I had to list my talents in order, flying would certainly come first but escapism would be a close second. The moment the tough got going, so did my feet. I marked the exits as I was walking in the door and I made sure I was never too cornered in that I couldn't find a way out.  
  
And that's how I ran smack into the Maquis. I'd exhausted all options and there they were.   
  
I secretly admired the Maquis; they stood for everything my father was against. There was also something so damn sexy about them, something so Robin Hood-esque, something so daring and adventurous, that I couldn't resist; my blood churned with excitement and that familiar rush of adrenaline settled into my limbs.  
  
Finding the Maquis had been easy; there were many that were sympathetic to their cause. You just had to talk to the right people, so it only took me a few months to turn up on the Maquis' front door step.  
  
Where I met B'Elanna. She'd been spunky even then, though I would never dare tell her now that "spunky" was the first word that came to mind when we met. Then, she had been undernourished, skinny, her eyes too large for her face and those wild short Klingon curls flying every which way.  
  
God, how things change.  
  
I look down at B'Elanna now. Nine years ago, we could not even look at each other without animosity. In fact, during my early days in the Maquis, I'd stay away from B'Elanna, convinced that she would do me in if she could. And now, I can't even imagine what my life will be like if she doesn't wake up.   
  
And to make one thing really clear: I'm not going to impale myself on something sharp if something happens to B'Elanna. Physical suffering is not my style; rather, psychological torture, that's what I like. Dark, smoky bars, lots of nameless women, and synthale overflowing my glass - now that's the true path to self-torment.   
  
God, I'm a sick bastard; I'm already thinking my anguish through, already trying to protect myself in case the unacceptable and unbelievable happens.  
  
I don't want to be without her.  
  
Honestly.  
  
And I want her to damn well get out of that bed, get to her feet, so I can grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into that stubborn Klingon head of hers. More importantly, I want to yell at her and ask her what the hell was she thinking when she scared me half out of my mind?  
  
"So it's real important you wake up," I whisper into B'Elanna's ear. "Because I've got a bone to pick with you, B'Elanna. So wake up, so I can tell you just how angry I am with you because you're - damn, you know, B'Elanna, I can't stay angry with you for very long. You always have this way of making me come around. Sure, I'm afraid you're going to filet my insides with that bat'leth of yours like that time when I created that Klingon holodeck program for you? I love it when you get that angry. So damn you. Just wake up so - I miss you. Please. B'Elanna. For me.   
For once in your life, listen to me."  
  
But still, there is no response and face it, I've been as eloquent as I possibly can be. There is a fine line between Cicero and mushy stuff, believe me, and I've got to walk it, because otherwise B'Elanna will either accuse me of being distant or pandering. If I'm not walking the line, I lose out.  
  
I hope B'Elanna appreciates the effort.  
  
I release her hand when Janeway and Chakotay enter.  
  
"How is she?" Chakotay asks.  
  
"Not good," I shake my head. "I've done everything I know and nothing's worked."  
  
"What is the cause?" Janeway questions.   
  
"The readings I took, they are anomalous. I've sent Jessup to download the EMH. Maybe he can help."  
  
"I know. He came to ask Tuvok for help," Janeway says. She circles B'Elanna, eyeing my wife with a proprietary glance that shocks even me. "Is she dying?"  
  
Silence.  
  
Damn, I didn't know Janeway could be that cold, that insensitive. And then I look up, note that the Captain has turned slightly away from B'Elanna, even though her fingers still linger on my wife's forearm. Janeway tips her head away from us, sniffles a bit, and then turns back to face us.  
  
"Well?" she asks briskly, as if this past moment, this slight display of tearful emotion, had never happened.   
  
I cannot speak so I merely nod my head.   
  
Janeway sets her jaw; I've seen that look before. The Captain learns only from the best and apparently, my father was her tutor in this area.  
  
"That's not an acceptable outcome," she says firmly.  
  
I look at the Captain. For the first time in months, we are in complete agreement.  
  
****  
  
We leave Tom in the Infirmary and cross to the quarters that Chakotay shares with another Maquis member. Outside, a thin ribbon of chill runs through the air, sharp enough to burrow right beneath my skin. I shiver slightly, bowing my shoulders in a bit. Chakotay glances at me.  
  
"Are you all right?" he asks.  
  
"Cold. I'd think, at the very least, the Federation could have installed climate control."  
  
"I like it."  
  
"You would. I suppose you enjoy being back in nature. Have you built a bathtub yet?" I regret the words immediately. Chakotay stops and puts his hand on my forearm.  
  
"No," he says. "I- there isn't anyone who would appreciate it here."  
  
For a moment, I fancy that Chakotay is coming back to me, that he is slowly thawing and our relationship will be back to normal.  
  
"But... everything else," I say. Chakotay reaches to cup his cool hand around my neck, drawing me closer. "Everything else is fine, right?"  
  
"I wouldn't want it any other way," he says. He rubs his thumb against my cheek and then releases me. "Don't worry about us, Kathryn. We'll be fine."  
  
"You... you aren't coming with us?"  
  
"Coming where?" Chakotay looks surprised.  
  
"I'm getting you out of here."  
  
"I don't know if I want to go."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous."  
  
"Where do I go, Kathryn? What do I do? Here, at least, we can have our own lives, without carrying our past into our future. I don't want to explain why I did what I did over and over again. Now that the Federation is shaking hands with the Cardassians, we don't even have a convenient excuse."  
  
"You don't need excuses, Chakotay."  
  
"If we didn't, would we be standing here right now having this conversation?" Chakotay asks. "By all that's right, we ought to be wining and dining at Starfleet Headquarters, not standing in the middle of some godforsaken tundra, grasping at straws."  
  
I eye him.  
  
"So that's what this is all about to you, is it?" I ask. "Grasping at straws? You don't think there is something going on?"  
  
"Oh, I believe there is a conspiracy. There's no doubt in my mind about that. Starbases don't just blow up for no reason," he tells me. "I don't know if I want to be the one tilting at   
windmills."  
  
"Is that why you wouldn't give me the information I wanted?"  
  
We stand there, barely centimeters apart, and not for the first time in our long partnership, we are light years away in thoughts and emotions. This time though, I don't sense we'll come to an agreement. In so many ways, we've returned to that moment seven years ago when I was staring at Chakotay, Maquis rebel, with obvious distaste and distrust.  
  
Wind whips brown, brittle leaves around our feet. I shiver again, not certain whether from the cold or in shock over Chakotay's obvious detachment.  
  
Chakotay sighs deeply.  
  
"Let's go inside," he says. "It's better to talk out of the wind."  
  
"You can't hide from me," I tell him. "I find it hard to believe that you did not know about corrupt Starfleet officers. I think knowledge of such a plot would be information the Maquis would have thrived on. In fact, I'm surprised you didn't use it for your own gain."  
  
"Inside," Chakotay says sharply. He starts walking, head bowed down against the wind. I follow him.  
  
"You've never lied to me before!" I yell after him. "Why now?"  
  
Chakotay enters the house and stands just inside the doorway, waiting for me.  
  
"Come in," he says. "Come on, Kathryn."  
  
I take the steps two at a time and pass Chakotay without a glance.   
  
"I didn't lie to you."  
  
"Then what just happened? You told me, to my face, without blinking, how you didn't know a thing about a Starfleet extortion scheme and now you admit it?"  
  
"You think it's going to help our case?"  
  
"I think it's related. Admiral Paris made a point of mentioning it to me. It could explain a lot of things. Chakotay," my voice softens. I look around and note the gray-furniture, the lack of personal effects, and the out-dated replicator unit on the far wall. "We've been through a lot together. Some of it good, some bad - very bad. This is no different."  
  
"You have a career, Kathryn," he sits down on the sofa, and leans forward, resting his weight on his thigh. I take the armchair directly opposite him; the straight back lacks cushion and cool metal sends a shiver through my spine.  
  
"Such as it is," I scoff. "McArthur is looking for me. Once he finds out where I am, even that Dauntless commission will evaporate."  
  
"What?"  
  
I realize that Chakotay has no idea that Starfleet has reassigned me. I explain quickly and he looks faintly amused.  
  
"Starfleet acknowledges your many violations of the Prime Directive and instead of putting you in front of a tribunal, they decide to ship you to the far corners of the quadrant?" Chakotay asks. "And you want me to go back to Starfleet? That's ridiculous. Or maybe you don't think so?"  
  
"I know what it looks likes and I'm asking for your help. Please, Chakotay. I'm begging." I offer him what I hope looks like a smile. He shrugs.  
  
"If you go to Starfleet with this information, you understand your career could be over," he says very softly.  
  
"It's a risk I'm willing to take."  
  
"You don't have to be right."  
  
"I won't ignore my duty to my crew."  
  
"We're not your problem anymore."  
  
"Don't say that," I say. "Remember what we talked about? When we sensed division among our crew? You were with me then, Chakotay, arguing that Starfleet and Maquis work together. Why not now?"  
  
"Because the stakes are higher now. You could jeopardize your career."  
  
"I can take care of myself."  
  
I get up from my chair and kneel next to him, taking his hand in mine.  
  
"If what you says happens and I get discharged, I can think of worse places to spend my exile than here," I tell him softly. "With you."   
  
His eyes widen and he sits back, still clutching at my hand. It is almost as if I've given him the permission he has been desperately seeking; no matter the distance between us, Chakotay is still looking out for my welfare and I cannot fault him for that.  
  
"I'll tell you," he says.  
  
~ end part II ~  
  
****  
  
Tuvok and Jessup burst into the room. I look at them questioningly, still holding B'Elanna's hand in mine.  
  
"Well?" I ask.  
  
"We are downloading the EMH now," Tuvok says. He covers the distance from the door to the only console in the room in about three steps.  
  
"What?" I ask.  
  
"The Doctor says that these symptoms are similar to those recorded when Lieutenant Torres went to gre'thor."  
  
"Terrific," I stand up. "Great, B'Elanna. Thanks."  
  
Jessup looks at me, "What are you talking about?"  
  
"She- damn," I slam my palm against the biobed. Jessup grabs my arm.  
  
"Paris!" Jessup exclaims. "Look, I don't know what's going on, but she's sick and you're not helping!"  
  
"This is exactly like something B'Elanna would do!" I yell back. "Probably some misguided sense of honor and she decided to go back to gre'thor for some unfinished business. Damn! She- she knows how I feel about that but did it anyway."  
  
"What are you talking about? What's gre'thor?"  
  
"Klingon hell. She went last year in a controlled environment to redeem her mother's honor. It was frightening, to say the least. I almost lost her." I lean forward on the biobed, my fingers just barely touching B'Elanna's leg. "I almost lost her. I know the effects from the Borg cube were traumatic and I knew she had unresolved issues - God, I should have listened."  
  
"Please state the nature of the-"   
  
I look up at the EMH, who at this moment in my life, is the sweetest hologram I've ever seen. And yeah, I'm including all of those stupid holographic girlfriends I created in an attempt to experience something that was physically satisfying, but mentally disappointing.   
  
"Mr. Paris," the Doctor says. "How is Lieutenant Torres?"  
  
I show him the readings from my tricorder.   
  
"Your results are slightly more elevated than mine," the Doctor admits. "Her condition is extremely critical."  
  
"Do something then," I snap. "Don't tell us what we already know."  
  
"Calm down, Mr. Paris." The Doctor rapidly takes inventory. "You didn't tell me that the facilities were so primitive."  
  
"There are supplies on the Delta Flyer," I point out. "Basics, that is."  
  
"I will retrieve them," Tuvok says, probably glad to get out of this room. I don't blame him; if it weren't for B'Elanna lying there on the biobed, there'd be flames in my wake too.  
  
The infirmary, given my experiences on Voyager, is not exactly my favorite place to be.  
  
"I am aware of what is available on the Delta Flyer," the Doctor hovers over B'Elanna. "Please retrieve them for me."  
  
"You can help her, can't you?" Jessup asks quietly.  
  
"I will do my best, Mister...? Who are you?"  
  
"Jessup. Herid Jessup."  
  
"Pleased to meet you, sir. Now, if you will kindly step out of my way..." the Doctor does a rather slick sidestep move which makes me think that he practices such steps when no one is looking. "Mr. Paris, you too."  
  
I oblige, nearly bumping into Jessup. He glares at me. I shrug.  
  
"Hmm, I'm reading increased neural activity," the Doctor says. "There is some cellular deterioration and I'm detecting signs of some kind of virus. Mr. Paris, please upload this scan to the Delta Flyer's medical database. See if you can find a match."  
  
"Right," I take the PADD with the relevant information and nearly fly out of the Infirmary. I'm half way to the Delta Flyer before I realize that that annoying little toad, Jessup, is on my heels.  
  
"What do you want?" I ask him.  
  
"I thought I'd help out."  
  
We pause long enough to nod at Tuvok, who walks past us briskly with the medkit from the Delta Flyer over his shoulder.  
  
"Help out?" I ask, clenching my teeth. "What do you mean?"  
  
"B'Elanna means a lot to me. If there is anything I can do for her-"  
  
"Haven't you done enough?" I query.  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
"You left her there. Maybe if you hadn't taken so long-"  
  
"I explained that! I intended to go right back, but I-" he pauses. "I- I didn't realize. I stopped to help the others move some equipment-"  
  
"You knew B'Elanna was hurt and you still took your time?" I'm nearly yelling at this point. I resume walking and head towards the Delta Flyer. Once inside, I bump my head on the low ceiling and I curse colorfully. Not for the first time, I make a mental note to raise the ceiling height in my next shuttle design. I slide into the chair previously occupied by the captain, swivel around, and adjust the knobs on the side to compensate for my greater height.   
  
"You're right, Tom."  
  
"Damn! You're still here?" I don't turn around as I punch the buttons on the console. The Delta Flyer's medical database is not as comprehensive as Voyager's, due to the small storage capacity, but the information is useful and the Doctor does his best to keep it updated.  
Jessup, uninvited, slips into the pilot's seat. He turns around so he is facing me.  
  
"You don't deserve her," he says.  
  
"That's your opinion."  
  
"You were a rotten excuse of a Maquis; my opinion of you as a person is even less complimentary."  
  
"Believe me," I laugh. "I've been insulted by others in higher positions with much more flair. I'm sorry you don't think I deserve B'Elanna and maybe I don't, but it's really none of your business, is it?"  
  
"I care about her."  
  
"So do I."  
  
"You have a funny way of showing it."  
  
"And on what basis are you drawing that conclusion? Aw hell, you know what? I don't owe you any explanations," I tell him. "I'm not having this conversation with you."  
  
I watch the small monitor as it runs through the comparison algorithms. The search is relatively slow, but then time is all a matter of perspective. When you're defending the galaxy against the machinations of cybernetic creatures, a few hours seemingly melt into minutes. Of course, then there's the brig; believe me, thirty days in that insanity-inducing chamber feels longer than our entire stint in the Delta Quadrant.  
  
Hovering over B'Elanna, like I've done so many times, now that's a lifetime of waiting right there. Waiting for her wounds to heal, waiting for those brown eyes to open and waiting for those full lips to turn up into that smile reserved especially for me.  
  
"You want to explain what happened when you betrayed us?" Jessup asks.  
  
I look at him in annoyance and surprise, completely amazed that he has yet to stop talking. There's nothing worse than someone continuing a conversation you don't particularly want to have.  
  
Especially when the other person tosses around scary words like "betrayed."  
  
"That's a bit harsh, isn't it?" I ask lightly.  
  
"I'm calling it what it is," Jessup says. "It was a betrayal, clear and simple. Why did you even join up if you were going to surrender at the first opportunity?"  
  
"What is this? A trial? I didn't do anything wrong."  
  
"We trusted you."  
  
"Ha! You never trusted me, none of you," I tell him. "Maybe Chakotay, but only on a good day after a few raktajinos. The rest of you hated me, so don't try to pretend my time in the Maquis was fuzzy and warm."  
  
"You volunteered for a mission and we trusted you to fulfill that mission," Jessup presses on doggedly.  
  
"I carried out the mission." I sigh and punch a few keys. A data appears on my small viewscreen.  
  
"You didn't come back."  
  
"I was captured. I bet no one told you that," I say. "Starfleet. The way I saw it, Herid, I had a choice. I could either let us get captured or we could all die. Do you understand now? I surrendered willingly so that the mission would not be jeopardized."  
  
"Coward."  
  
"Hardly. I saved your comrades' lives. Apparently, they didn't think much of the gesture, since I seem to still have this stain on my reputation. I'm glad to know that my time in Auckland really did mean something."  
  
"Your father didn't help you out of that mess? I'm sure he could have saved you from the penal colony if you were worth saving."  
  
I take a deep breath. Low blow indeed. No, my father did not help. In fact, I'm sure he read of my arrest with thin-lipped silence and not once did he visit or send me a message. I'm sure if my father had had his way, he would have erased Thomas Eugene Paris from the family tree neatly printed on parchment and framed in his office.   
  
In a way, I was glad for his distance; I wouldn't have known what to say if he had come. Though, there have been times when I have wondered - wondered if just one visit from him could have made all of the difference in our relationship.  
  
There's no point dwelling on questions when you know the answers you desperately seek are no longer available.  
  
"No," I say very quietly just as the console beeps at me, signaling completion. "Here's everything we have about the Ghasa virus."  
  
Jessup's face is very pale as he leans over my shoulder to read the console.  
  
"Damn," he says in a low voice. "You think this is what B'Elanna has?"  
  
"Looks like it," I say. "Back... back when I was in the Maquis, there was a Bolian who died, right? She had symptoms just like B'Elanna does now."  
  
"Janie," Jessup nods. "She was the first one. Others got sick, but we managed to get them medical treatment, so they were okay."  
  
"Did you suspect that B'Elanna had Ghasa?"  
  
"No," Jessup says. "I had no reason to suspect it. They told us that they had eradicated it."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"The Federation. When they told us that they were resettling us here, we asked specifically about Ghasa because that's the reason why we abandoned this as a base of operations in '71." Jessup gets out of his chair, nearly tripping over the slight step. "They told us that the virus had been eliminated and we didn't have to worry about it."  
  
"They were wrong," I say grimly. I get up. "Either that, or the Federation lied. I'd like to believe the former, but current events lead me to believe that it's probably the latter. We better go; gotta get this information to the Doctor."  
  
I brush past Jessup, and then, as I step out into the chill of the afternoon air, I turn to look back at the Ktarian. His rigid posture would make a dance teacher proud.  
  
"Hey!" I call. "You coming?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
He falls into step next to me.  
  
"How long have you been here?" I ask. A feeble attempt at small talk, but it's better than walking in shoulder-to-shoulder silence. Plus, it's also a chance to make sort of friends with a guy who is still in love with my wife. At the very least, I can figure out what his dastardly motives are. One thing's for sure: I'm not letting him out of my range of vision.  
  
"Two, three years. Somewhere in there."  
  
"A long time."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"No cases of the virus before B'Elanna?"  
  
"No, but then we never really had cause to leave the settlement," Jessup says. He shivers slightly and bows his head against the increasingly sharp wind. "Sure, we'd venture out a bit, but mostly we stayed within the boundaries."  
  
"But you never questioned the Federation authorities?"  
  
"How? We asked certain things and they gave us answers. How were we to know that they were lying to us?"  
  
"That's your problem," I tell him as we mount the stairs to the Infirmary. "You're too trusting."  
  
"Well, you've got the opposite problem," Jessup shoots back. "You don't trust anyone."  
  
I narrow my eyes at him and for a split second, I feel a primal need to lunge at the man, grab him by the throat and squeeze. The Doctor intercedes, effectively placing himself between my violent tendencies and Herid Jessup.  
  
"Ghasa," I say. "Everything you need to know is on the data PADD."  
  
"Ah, I am familiar with that virus," the Doctor says. "In fact, according to the database, the   
disease has a sixty percent mortality-"  
  
"Doctor," I say, grabbing his arm anxiously. "Look at B'Elanna."  
  
I point. B'Elanna's veins, blue and raised, are visible beneath her now largely translucent skin.   
  
"The first symptom of death," Jessup mutters. "Before the bleeding..."  
  
I whirl on him.   
  
"Shut up!" I exclaim. "Just shut up."  
  
"She's going to die," Jessup says morbidly, his eyes fixed on B'Elanna. "We must face it."  
  
"No need to plan the funeral so fast, Mr. Jessup. I can stabilize her," the Doctor says quickly.   
  
He moves to B'Elanna's side. "Mr. Paris, please, get me the hypospray - yes, that's the one. Thank you."  
  
I cross the room to hand the Doctor the hypospray and my fingers brush B'Elanna's cheek lightly; her skin burns me. I lean down and whisper into her ear, "You can't die on me, B'Elanna. Not now."  
  
I straighten up and look over at Jessup whose resigned facial expression makes me want to punch him. And then I notice his quivering lower lip and even though I don't want to, I feel sorry for the guy.  
  
I look back at the Doctor and it bothers me that he isn't humming, something he does every time he works on a patient. I swallow hard.  
  
"Can you help her?" I ask softly. The Doctor does not look up and for a moment, I think he didn't hear me and then I realize the truth; he doesn't know.  
  
~ end part III ~  
  
****  
  
Anticipation kills me.  
  
Literally.  
  
Watching Chakotay fumble for words and wondering exactly what he will say has me on edge. He is right - that much I have to admit. I am taking a gamble, hoping that his information will somehow provide the "out" my people need.  
  
Yes, despite what Chakotay says, I still don't see the distinction. I don't see Maquis and I don't see Starfleet; I see Voyager's crew. Janus-faced we are, true, but we couldn't have survived seven years in the Delta Quadrant without each other.  
  
"Chakotay?" I ask very softly. He doesn't look up. Somehow, the lines on his palms are   
infinitely more interesting to him. In a way, his silence reminds me of that second just before your stomach leaps right into your throat - that rush of excitement and fear that precedes a plunge from heights.  
  
My sister - she hated those rides at the carnival; she would hold onto the safety bar, white-knuckled, her eyes closed tight. On the other hand, I loved every moment. Loved that free fall, and then that slight tickle of a laugh that bubbled up when I realized I had survived something death defying. Or maybe that was my own misguided sense of immortality; when you're young, you're allowed to think you can fall forever.  
  
But of course, the adult in me has a very different sense and it's one that Chakotay is driving home in a way that I had never thought.  
  
If I fall now, there won't be a safety net. There won't be a red-faced, heavy-set ride operator smiling gap-toothed at me while I walk away drunkenly.  
  
"You never saw the destruction," Chakotay says very quietly. "You never saw the death."  
  
"I know."  
  
"You don't know what it's like to see your family dragged from their home and their land, screaming."  
  
"You're right, I don't."  
  
"When the offer came, we took it," Chakotay glances at me. His expression is serious, his tone pensive. "I didn't think myself capable of violent anger, Kathryn. I always prided myself on equanimity. You know I don't always think violence is the way out."  
  
"But you do - you have been violent."  
  
"I changed the day my father was murdered."  
  
Chakotay lowers his eyes and suddenly, there is a spot on the wall directly above his head that is unbelievably fascinating to me.  
  
"Then the Cardassians arrived. I don't know how many there were, but we were certainly out-numbered. I think even at that time, we still thought the Federation would come to our aid. We were horribly misguided."  
  
"You knew the terms of the treaty."  
  
"Theoretically, yes. Practically, no. It's one thing to understand a particular edict, Kathryn; it's a completely different matter when you live it."  
  
"Like a mirror," I say with a bit of feeling. "You know, the ones that distort you? Until you step away, you don't realize that you aren't ten meters tall."  
  
Chakotay looks at me blankly.  
  
"Haven't you been to a traveling carnival, Chakotay?" I ask.  
  
He shrugs, "No."  
  
Silence again. Slightly uncomfortable, but necessary. I clear my throat.  
  
"Go on."  
  
"You fight a long time for something you believe in, something that you think you can win, and all that's left is a field, once alive with crops, and you are there, cradling your father's body. He didn't want to be saved. I'm sure if we had tried, we could have saved him, but he said no. He said no."  
  
Chakotay takes a deep breath and stands up. He stretches and then walks to the far wall, the only one with a window.   
  
"I don't blame him, Kathryn. I think, if our positions had been reversed, I would have done the same. You can only fight for so long."  
  
"I don't understand. When was this deal made? Before your father's death?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Were you there?"  
  
Silence again and then a slight nod.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Who else?"  
  
"Michael Eddington, among others. Don't know if you've heard of him. I brought B'Elanna along because I didn't want anything to happen to the ship that would prevent us from making the meeting, but she never attended any of the negotiations."   
  
"Did you talk about what went on with her?"  
  
"Just vaguely," Chakotay says. "She asked a few questions, I answered them, but you have to understand. In the Maquis, we didn't ask because knowing too much put the entire cell in danger."  
  
"So I hear," I say. "Resistance Cell Dynamics with Professor Glendale. Sounds like a physics class, actually."  
  
"You took that class too?"  
  
"An easy elective," I smile wryly. "I planned to apply some of the philosophy Glendale taught when I went after your ship."  
  
"Too bad all of that book learning went to waste."  
  
"Indeed," I say. "Who were the others, Chakotay? Who else was involved in the negotiations?"  
  
"No one who is alive now and no one has heard from Ro Laren in years," Chakotay says. I look at him in surprise at the mention of Ro Laren who was the first Starfleet officer to openly defect to the Maquis. I assumed, like everyone else, that Ro was dead, but Chakotay apparently believes otherwise.  
  
"Ro is still out there?" I ask. Chakotay shrugs.  
  
"She wasn't with Eddington during that last battle and Starfleet never caught her," Chakotay chuckles. "Ro always knew how to run circles around Starfleet. It's a trait that made her a good asset to the cause. I wouldn't be surprised if she was simply out there, lurking, waiting for the right moment to expose the real traitors."  
  
The way he stresses this last word, 'traitors,' irks me greatly.  
  
"With whom did you make the deal?" I demand.  
  
"Does it matter?"  
  
"Why do you keep saying that? Of course it matters!"  
  
"I did most of the negotiating," Chakotay says. "But Eddington was the driving force behind the talks. He arranged the talks, you know. Set them up, and then during the breaks, he would drill me and then coach me on what to say next. He was still wearing a Starfleet uniform then."  
  
"Did Starfleet know about Eddington's involvement?"  
  
"No, no," Chakotay shakes his head. "They had no idea."  
  
"Who are `they'?"  
  
Chakotay shifts in his chair.   
  
"McArthur?" I ask very softly. "Was it Rodney McArthur?"  
  
"No," Chakotay offers a grin. "He was the only one who wasn't there."  
  
"But he knew."  
  
"Yes, of course."  
  
"I've known the Admiral a long time. He's a good man, Chakotay."  
  
"I knew you'd say that. That's the inherent problem with perception. We allow people to see only those facets we want them to see. But it wasn't McArthur. It would have been so easy. I knew McArthur's son, John, at the Academy. We're the same age, took many of the same classes. I saw John only once after we graduated. He died three days later."  
  
"Died?"  
  
"An unfortunate scuffle."  
  
"Scuffle?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Maquis related?"  
  
"Yes," Chakotay says. "He crashed a shuttle while inebriated. He was badly injured. That's when I found him. We brought him back to camp, gave him medical treatment. He hadn't been gone even a day before he called in the Federation on us. That's gratitude, isn't it? We save his life and he turns us into the authorities. We had warning though. Ayala followed him. So when they came, we were ready. It was... unfortunate."  
  
"I see."  
  
The pieces are falling together slowly. I see a clear picture of Admiral McArthur grieving over his only son. I see the murderer - Chakotay - emerge from the depths of the Delta Quadrant and here, finally, is the chance for revenge - the chance to avenge a death.   
  
"Who?" my voice is sharp and impatient. "Chakotay, who were they?"  
  
He chuckles.  
  
"Don't you hate it when the mirror shatters, Kathryn?"  
  
"You're scaring me."  
  
"No," he says. "I'm just telling you what was - is. I'm not entirely convinced that McArthur is behind this, but it's a definite possibility. He certainly had the means to engineer the destruction of a starbase and he had the motive. John McArthur was one of many who died for a variety of reasons and by the law, we should stand trial for that death and the others. But you know, in those long hours of questioning, Admiral McArthur never asked about what happened to John. It was almost as if it didn't matter."  
  
"Because he knew you would not leave the starbase alive."  
  
"Maybe," Chakotay says. "But I don't think that's the reason."  
  
"What do you mean?" I lean forward. "You just said McArthur was a possible suspect."  
  
Chakotay shrugs and then picks up a rock - the one and only useless object in this otherwise utilitarian setting.   
  
"Aren't you going to tell me?" I ask.  
  
"I think he didn't ask because he knew in the end that it didn't matter," Chakotay says. "If you have high-ranking Federation officials afraid of a group of terrorists for any reason and know that those people are going to do anything to prevent certain facts from coming out, then the details don't matter. I got the feeling that Admiral McArthur was stalling. He was waiting for someone or something."  
  
Chakotay turns the rock over in his hands, examining it closely. He holds it up to me.  
  
"See this? It's metamorphic," he says. "Note the granoblastic texture."  
  
I take the rock from him. There is nothing extraordinary about this rock, nothing at all. I put it down as Chakotay returns to his seat.  
  
"I didn't know you liked rocks," I tell him.  
  
"There's a lot you don't know about me."  
  
Sometimes Chakotay makes me feel very small. I'd compliment him on that ability, but I hate it when he cuts me down like that. So I do what I always do when he makes a pointed comment I dislike: I change the subject.  
  
"Chakotay?" I ask softly. "Who do you think McArthur waiting for?"  
  
My former first officer looks at me in surprise, almost as if he didn't realize that he hadn't answered my question.  
  
"Admiral Paris."  
  
~ end part IV ~  
  
****  
  
You don't ever think about how your day is going to play out when you first kick off the covers in the morning. Of course there are scheduled events - a meeting here, a lunch date there, and of course, that "things to do before I die" list - but you don't really ever know how your day will end up.  
  
If I had known, I would have never gotten out of bed to face what is rapidly becoming the longest day of my life.  
  
I didn't think it possible for an hour to contain more than sixty minutes.  
  
Didn't think it possible for there to be more than sixty seconds in each one of those damn minutes.  
  
Back when B'Elanna and I were floating out there in space, now that felt like a long time. When B'Elanna decided to move on over to the Borg cube, time literally stretched out until it frayed at the edges.  
  
The Doctor moves mechanically, and he never - not once - makes eye contact. He does not sing as he often does to pass time, and he rarely says anything more than, "Mr. Paris, pass the hypospray" or "Mr. Paris, I need ten milligrams of such and such drug."  
  
Tuvok, never a great conversationalist, stands with exceedingly proud posture against the wall, arms folded across his chest, his gaze leveled on Jessup, who stares back at us angrily.   
  
Occasionally, the Ktarian's eyes drift to B'Elanna and his expression softens.  
  
The one saving grace is that all of us - Tuvok, Jessup and I - have been inoculated from the virus, thanks to the Doctor's quick work. At least I know I won't die a blithering, blood mass, though I suppose there are more humiliating ways to say good-bye to life.  
  
"Tom," Jessup's voice is low. I eye him and the Doctor nods at me. I let go of B'Elanna's hand and walk over to Jessup.  
  
"What?" I ask.  
  
"Is she going to be all right?"  
  
"The Doctor thinks so."  
  
"That's good."  
  
"I didn't mean to leave her."  
  
"I understand. It's okay."  
  
"No, it's not."   
  
"You didn't know."  
  
"Maybe I did," he says.   
  
"What are you saying?"  
  
"I'm saying that maybe I did know."  
  
"What are you saying?" my voice is very low.   
  
Jessup runs a hand through his hand.  
  
"You left her on purpose? Did you infect her?" I ask in my most dangerous voice.  
  
Silence.   
  
Tuvok hovers over us, casting a lithe shadow over us. In the background, the Doctor hums "Someone To Watch Over Me" - his tune of preference when tending to the sick.   
  
"No," Jessup laughs. "I would never hurt B'Elanna. God, I love her."  
  
I pretend not to hear this last confession of Jessup's and ignore the bile accumulating in my mostly empty stomach. So what if he loves B'Elanna? I'm the one she married, right? Of course, in the Delta Quadrant, the options open to B'Elanna Torres were limited, but still... possession is nine-tenths of the law, right?   
  
"Then...?" I ask as calmly as I can. "What are you saying?"  
  
"When that insect bit her, I should have paid more attention," Jessup says. "I've seen the   
symptoms before. Damn, I watched Janie die and I should've known. Should have known."  
  
Tuvok relaxes. No potential murder suspect here. In a way it's disappointing; I'd love to hang Jessup up by his underwear and plant my fists squarely in his gut.   
  
"It's not your fault," I respond, a bit more nicely than I would have liked to. In truth, I really do want to throttle this man who left B'Elanna out there in the woods. It would be nice to have a go at him right here, but of course, that would disturb the Doctor's efforts to cure B'Elanna. In the interest of selfishness, I hold back.  
  
"When we found her, I thought I would be the one to save her," Jessup goes on. His eyes are glassy and I note that his skin is flushed. "And she would be grateful... so grateful. So, maybe that's why I was late. Because I thought she would appreciate me, and be so grateful-"  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
"You know what I'm talking about. You and B'Elanna. She doesn't deserve you."  
  
"We're talking about this again? You really do have a one-track mind. You might as well come out and say what you want to say since you obviously can't move on from this subject. So go on, explain yourself."  
  
"She needs someone who can support her, who can see her for the complex individual she is. She needs someone honorable."  
  
Okay, now that hurt, damn it. You can badmouth my DNA all you'd like and hell, I'd join you in that particular sport since I'm so good at it myself, but question my honor? Now I'm mad   
I lunge at Jessup, my fist making much needed contact with the tender skin of his cheek.  
  
"Lieutenant!" Tuvok grabs me by the shoulder, pulling me off of Jessup. I note with satisfaction that the former Maquis fighter strokes his cheek gingerly.  
  
"You haven't changed," Jessup says bitterly. "You still use your fists to communicate."  
  
"Only when provoked," I say evenly as I shrug off Tuvok's grip. Jessup struggles to his feet and with some small measure of glee, I notice that his breathing is labored.  
  
"I don't suppose you ever cared what happened to us after your little joyride!" Jessup yells.  
  
"Gentlemen, quiet!" the Doctor roars.  
  
"I saved lives! If I hadn't surrendered, we would have been killed!" I yelled back.   
  
"If you had been true to the cause, you would not have surrendered. B'Elanna, Chakotay, Seska, Suder, me - none of us would have surrendered. We would have rather died!"  
  
"Forgive me for wanting to live! I've never had a death wish! Never. I didn't join the Maquis to end up dead and forgotten."  
  
"So then I was right all along. You joined because you wanted to drink and women -"  
  
"Yes and the Maquis would be the ideal place for that," I scoff. "Don't be ridiculous."  
  
Jessup's voice was very soft, "I watched you, Paris. Did you sleep with every woman in the Maquis?"  
  
"Don't be ridiculous."  
  
"Does B'Elanna know?"  
  
"She knows I've made mistakes in the past. She knows there have been women."  
  
"Does she know how many?"  
  
"It's not important."  
  
"Does she know that sometimes you didn't even know the names of the women you slept with?"  
  
"B'Elanna knows what she needs to know. She can ask me anything and I won't lie to her."  
  
"You're despicable."  
  
"I'm not the same man you knew ten years ago."  
  
"Ha!" Jessup flails his arms as he takes a step towards me. Tuvok holds onto my arm.  
  
"Calm, Lieutenant," Tuvok says.   
  
I shrug Tuvok's arm off and duck as Jessup's fist narrowly misses my cheek. Tuvok immediately puts himself between the two of us, obviously miffed that he did not react fast enough to prevent Jessup's actions.  
  
"Look, whatever happened, it happened almost ten years ago," I say. "Let's put it behind us, all right?"  
  
"Do you know my sister died because you surrendered?" Jessup asks. I look at him in surprise; I didn't even know the bastard had a sister.  
  
"That's right, Tom," Jessup goes on. "You were supposed to rescue a group of colonists from Arcady. You remember this, right?"  
  
"Of course I do. How could I forget the only mission I ever ran for the Maquis?"  
  
The memory itself, however, is faded. I remember a planet, its scars visible from space. I remember the desperate calls for help and then, the Federation vessels narrowing on us. For the first few nights in Auckland, I replayed that scenario - reviewed every detail in my mind - before assuaging my conscience with the salve that yes, I had done right this time. For once in my stupid, goddamned life, I had done the right thing.  
  
I had been unselfish and for once in my life, I hadn't attempted one of the million daredevil scenarios playing through my head.  
  
In those moments before I surrendered, I remembered Caldik Prime. Thought of the dead as the Federation pounded us with their superior fire power, and I remembered the mothers and their quivering lips and red-rimmed eyes.  
  
And I realized, as I contemplated my small crew of five, that I didn't want to add to the body count already to my credit.   
  
So, I opened the hailing frequencies without asking anyone and got an admiral - Gil Atherton, I think his name was - who evidently had been in Starfleet since the creation of time, his skin leathery and his eyes bloodshot.   
  
I knew him from the haughty soirees my parents held once a month. The top brass would swarm en masse into our house, descending upon the hearth of the Paris family with their loud, abrasive voices and commanding statures; each talked louder and more quickly than his predecessor. During these elegant parties, my mother would swoop in and out of the crowd, her voice unnaturally high-pitched and her eyes glittering with excitement; I often wondered if my father realized that my mother injected herself with an antidepressant prior to these little gatherings. So my mother, perfect in black dress and white pearls, blond hair neatly pulled back from her face and arranged perfectly, would dance attendance on these Starfleet officers, taking compliments on home and cooking graciously.   
  
And then would come the command to bring out the Paris progeny. We - my two sisters and I - would troop out freshly scrubbed and heaven forbid if there be even a crease in our clothing - and we would smile brightly for the admiration of all and the honor of our father. Our father would present us each in turn, giving each officer the opportunity to pinch our cheeks and wonder at our futures in Starfleet.  
  
"Of course the Paris family has had a long, distinguished service record," my father would invariably say. "There is no reason for that to change now, is there?"  
  
Everyone would smile, my father would beam and my mother's eyes grew brighter; as for us, we would be brilliant, brief and gone, slipping away and hiding in the darkest corners of the garden, hoping that the dirt clinging to our shoes would not give us away.  
  
"Tom Paris," Admiral Atherton said in his clipped voice full of Federation authority.  
  
"I surrender," I said very clearly. "We surrender."  
  
And I did not look at the stunned expressions around me; obviously, they didn't mind dying for a cause. I did mind. Dying, that is.   
  
"Your father will be disappointed," Atherton said.  
  
"Did you hear me? We surrender."  
  
"I can't believe this," Atherton said. He shook his head, looked properly mournful, and then looked back at me. "Very well. I accept your surrender."  
  
Starfleet beamed us off of the smoldering wreck of our ship, and while we watched, they tossed a couple of torpedoes at it for good measure. I shrugged off the destruction of the Maquis ship the same way I shrugged off everything else. Another milestone marking yet another failure for Tom Paris. It seemed to me that I was doomed to inconsequentiality - a crime for a Paris.   
Atherton, probably out of loyalty to my father, called me into his Ready Room before depositing me unceremoniously in the brig with the rest of the Maquis.  
  
"So this is where you turned up," Atherton began.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"With the Maquis."  
  
"It would seem so."  
  
"Your father did not raise his son to turn traitor on all that the Federation holds dear."  
  
"What my father did or did not do is not relevant," I answered evenly.  
  
"Shame on you," Atherton rose, drawing himself out to his full height. "Your father is a splendid man, a shining example of what a Starfleet officer ought to be. You do him dishonor with your actions. You do realize that you will never have a career in Starfleet now, don't you?"  
  
I looked squarely at Atherton and nodded.  
  
"I never wanted one," I told him. "I... I wanted-"  
  
And then I stopped, unable to complete the sentence. Atherton stared at me.  
  
"Tom?" he asked.  
  
I shrugged.  
  
"You're right," I said. "I'm an utter failure. I have ruined the Paris name." I was pandering now, but Atherton soaked it all up; doubtless he would run to my father and tell him about the humbling of one cocky Tom Paris. Maybe, my father would be pleased with my admissions. Maybe he wouldn't care.  
  
"That's all?" Atherton asked.  
  
"Isn't that enough?"   
  
I remember standing there in Atherton's Ready Room very clearly. That particular moment in my life strings itself along with all of the other moments of dismal failure. For once, just once, I'd like to be acknowledged for doing the right thing. Just once.  
  
And evidently, this surrender of mine won't register as a credit for Tom Paris.  
  
As I look at Herid Jessup, I'm amazed that his lips are still moving; thankfully, I barely hear the words dripping from his lips. B'Elanna has accused me in the past of not listening, of drifting away when she is telling me something of the utmost importance; I see now what she means. With difficulty, I bring myself back to the present to focus on what Jessup says.  
  
"Are you listening?" Jessup is evidently furious with me.  
  
"Yeah, yes, of course."  
  
"You never did evaluate the consequences of your actions-"  
  
"I went to Auckland, isn't that enough? Have you ever been to Auckland? Damn uncomfortable place. You complain about the one blanket in the Maquis, we didn't even get one in the prison camp."  
  
"There you go again, feeling sorry for yourself," Jessup shoots back. "Did you ever think what happened because you surrendered?"  
  
"No," I tell him. "Are you happy now? I didn't think about it. So what?"  
  
"Well, because you surrendered, they never got off the planet. In fact, the Cardassians moved in the very next day. The colonists fought, Tom. They fought for their homes, their land, and for their lives. I managed to go there a few days later and their blood still stained the soil."  
  
"I didn't know!" I yell at him. "How could I know what would happen? I had to make a decision and I made one."  
  
"You took the easy way out!"  
  
"No, I did not!"  
  
"Gentlemen!" the Doctor's voice is loud behind us. "If you might be so kind to remember, I do have a patient."  
  
We go quiet, but we still glare at each other with suspicion. Jessup is the first to blink, but   
I extend my hand.  
  
"We don't have to like each other," I tell him. "In fact, go right on hating me and that's quite all right with me. I'm sorry about your sister. I didn't know. But right now, I don't have enough in me to care. I should, but I don't. I'd like to let the past be the past. I've changed and I'm tired of having to prove that to everyone. So, you do what you like; I don't want to fight anymore."  
  
Jessup shrugs, "You're still a despicable pig."  
  
I smile at him; he doesn't deliver the insult with same flair as B'Elanna.  
  
"I'll take that as a compliment," I say.  
  
~ end part V ~  
  
*****  
  
Chakotay has a way of understating the shocking, of delivering the most stunning, heart-stopping gut-wrenching news in a calm, unruffled manner; he might as well be spinning parables around a campfire for all of the emotion he displays now.   
  
I, on the other hand, well, I'm sure Chakotay's going to have to peel me right off the floor and carry me out of here.   
  
I remain seated, stunned into a silence that I cannot quite break out of.  
Chakotay says nothing because he understands what it's like to have a trust violated.   
  
The man I knew - Owen Paris - apparently was nothing like the man he projected himself to be.  
The man I admired, he was another a projection, if you will - of what the ideal Starfleet officer should be like.   
  
Truth be told, I fall easily.  
  
It had taken all of my courage to request Admiral Paris to serve as my advisor for my honors thesis back in the Academy; I had taken on the massive compact halo objects as my topic and I needed someone who could steer me through it.  
  
Paris had done that and more, and the day I presented my thesis to the Committee, he sat in the front row.  
  
After graduation, Paris approached me with an offer.  
  
"You'll be the junior science officer," he said. "It's the Arias mission. Consider this a great opportunity to put your theory in practice."  
  
And of course, I had accepted; I would have been foolish to do otherwise.  
  
I would wake each morning, and compose myself into a stellar example of what a Starfleet officer ought to be, just so I could catch his eye. Once, he noted me observing him, and he beckoned me to come near.  
  
"You look pensive. What are you thinking about?"  
  
"Thinking about this mission and when we're going to have a chance to observe spatial phenomena in action."  
  
"That fascinates you?"  
  
"On a primitive level. I like the idea of something bigger, more dynamic, and of course, maybe have an opportunity to witness the very forces which formed our universe."  
  
"It's good to see you have a passion for something," the Admiral told me. "Perhaps- I wish that the enthusiasm you showed, I wish it manifested itself - well, it's not prevalent in the younger generation."  
  
"That, sir, if I may be candid..."  
  
"Of course, Kathryn."  
  
"That, sir, is a matter of perspective."  
  
"Discipline. That's what it takes."  
  
"I understand."  
  
Paris looked at me, the slightest hint of a smile stretching his thin, pale pink lips.  
  
"You're not afraid of me, are you?" he asked.  
  
"I try not to be, no, sir," I told him.  
  
"You don't have to lie, Ensign."  
  
"I know," I said. "It's honor to serve on your ship."  
  
"If it were not an honor, would you say so?"  
  
"Probably not, no, sir."  
  
"That's what I thought," he sighed. "Why don't people tell me the truth? Tell me, Ensign, why you watch me so closely."  
  
I didn't have an easy answer. Remember that I was still young, rather naive, and I had yet to develop the ability to think quickly and diplomatically. Paris saved me from answering by laughing and grasping my shoulder with his large hand.  
  
"Are you interested in command?" he asked seriously.  
  
"It would be a future goal of mine, yes."  
  
"Then watch and learn." Those Paris blue eyes twinkled at me. "Command isn't as easy as it seems, Ensign. It's an art. You must appear to be infallible, flawless, and never should you show a moment of indecision. You should be willing to call a bluff when necessary and you should be prepared to lie and lie well. They call it diplomacy, but we'll call it what it is, Lieutenant. You must be conniving, deceitful, but you must also be fair and just. You must adhere to doctrines of Starfleet, yet you must be able to see the shades of gray when the rule of law is not clear. You must make everyone happy but also be prepared to disappoint everyone - all at the same time. You must be willing to kill, as you are to heal and protect. You must make sacrifices and forgo indulgences for the greater good. Are you still interested, Kathryn?"  
  
"Put that way, sir, it hardly sounds satisfying."  
  
"Ah, but that's where you're mistaken," the Captain nodded at passing crewmen. "There's nothing in my life that could afford me greater pleasure or satisfaction than this career. One day, you'll understand, Ensign. One day."  
  
"I hope so, sir."  
  
From that day on, Paris would notice me and call me to his side, asking me a variety of questions. Quizzes on various Starfleet procedures turned into long hours on the Bridge training and later, into private sessions with the Captain himself on the fine art of command, as he so liked to bill his one-hour lectures.  
  
It was in one of these private meetings that I learnt that this so-called science expedition was really a spy mission and I had been woefully deceived; there would be no exploration of the natural forces for me. Rather, we were on a reconnaissance mission to gather information about Cardassian military operations and troops. Even in my disappointment, I found it difficult to despise Admiral Paris for not being entirely honest with me then.  
  
When I finally left the Paris' tutelage, he looked at me pensively.  
  
"You'll make a fine captain," he said.   
  
"I had a good teacher."  
  
"If I were a terrible teacher, would you say otherwise?"  
  
And because I knew how Owen Paris wanted this question answered and with my newly discovered confidence backing me up, I nodded.  
  
"Yes, sir, I would."  
  
"Good," Paris said approvingly. "Then I have done my job and done it well."  
  
And even during my short shoreleaves, I would drop in on Paris, let him know how I was doing, and in the darkest corners of the Delta Quadrant, when it seemed like we would perish out there,   
I would wonder what Paris would do in the same situations.   
  
I see now that I was painfully deceived.  
  
That spy mission, that was simply a symptom of the untruths and deceptions he would spin later. Yet, we all believed. We all admired. And Owen Paris, he accepted our adulation and gave us grave, ponderous words of wisdom. So the charade, this charming facade of an upstanding officer, continued.  
  
He did it with mirrors.  
  
Those damn mirrors.  
  
Hell, I look at myself every morning and try not to see the insane Kathryn Janeway who periodically took control. I stare at my reflection and try to compose myself into a calm, articulate, commanding leader. Several deep breaths, shoulders thrust back, a lift of the chin and voila, I am the Captain, the embodiment of all things Starfleet and Federation. I recite the Prime Directive on my knees with my hands clasped, my eyes closed in serene meditation. I confess regularly for violating that divine mantra and I hope that in the high holy place that is Starfleet Headquarters, forgiveness is forthcoming.   
  
I'm a traitor to my own religion.  
  
Chakotay reminds me of this frequently.  
  
What the hell, he's the reason for my conversion.  
  
He looks at me with those dark eyes and immediately, I find myself thinking those thoughts that no Starfleet-fearing Captain ought to be thinking.  
  
Downright sinful, if you ask me.  
  
I'm sure there is a special place in hell for people like me. If I look to that ancient philosopher, Dante, for his interpretation, I would hover somewhere in the first few circles - where reason cannot govern the most natural of instincts. As for Admiral Paris, well, he earns himself a front row seat in the eighth circle of hell, his soul forever encased by flame.  
  
I suppose then, that it's fitting, that Admiral self-immolated himself in the eerily beautiful explosion of a starbase.   
  
But why he saved the Maquis, now that's a question I can't answer. Then again, not all questions have answers and some things are better left unknown and open to speculation.   
  
"Kathryn?"   
  
"I'm thinking."  
  
"I know. You get that little crease right between your eyes," Chakotay says.   
  
"Why didn't you ever say anything?"  
  
"No one ever asked."  
  
"So, if I understood you properly, Admiral Paris was the one who engineered this scheme."  
"He was one of the main players, yes."  
  
I sigh. A dull ache begins in my right temple and I know that before long, this pain will settle itself comfortably behind my eyes, not to be evicted until somehow, I can make my way to the first aid kit on the Delta Flyer.  
  
"There's a certain irony in knowing the truth, isn't there, Kathryn? After all we went through?"  
  
"Things aren't as they seem," I say dully.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"I know," I sigh. "I suppose it was... quixotic, wasn't it? Idealistic, even?"  
  
"There is nothing wrong with a belief system, Kathryn. You need to understand that some will subjugate that system even as they insist that they are the upholders of that particular creed."  
  
"My fatal flaw, right?"  
  
"It's not so bad to take people at face value."  
  
"I can't believe I was deceived and so easily..."  
  
"I think the Admiral Paris you knew and the one I knew, those were two different men at different periods in time. In retrospect, his reputation as an outstanding Starfleet officer should not be in doubt."  
  
"He broke the law."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"He betrayed confidences."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And he and McArthur, they wanted the Maquis out of the way, so the truth wouldn't be revealed."  
  
"That's how I see it, yes."  
  
I mull over the information and slowly the scenario of what must have happened plays out in my mind. Voyager nears the Alpha Quadrant and those Starfleet officers involved in the scheme panic. Someone must do something. So Voyager is sent to a decrepit, out of the way starbase. Admiral Paris, delayed on his way out from San Francisco, gives McArthur orders to delay us however he can. McArthur runs through a farcical, half-hearted interrogation, but even he is not entirely sure of what is planned.   
  
"Why would Paris secretly order your evacuation? It seems to me that he went through a lot of trouble to cover his tracks," I ask. "Why didn't he just order you to Alonius Prime?"  
  
Chakotay shrugs.   
  
"I don't know," he says. "It could be that he wanted to conduct a real trial, but because of the explosion, he couldn't carry out those plans."  
  
I ponder this suggestion, but even that seems out of character for Owen Paris.  
  
"If he was afraid of you talking, what about the others?" I ask.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Didn't all of the Maquis know?" I ask. "What about those Maquis who have been exiled here for years?"  
  
Chakotay shakes his head.  
  
"We never came out and said who was involved," he says. "The deal fell through almost immediately. The first raid they didn't show, we knew we couldn't count on Starfleet for protection. It occurred to us that maybe we could cause a stir back in San Francisco if we revealed names, but by then, we were in the thick of the battle. They were hunting us down and petty grievances -"  
  
"These weren't petty grievances," I tell Chakotay. "What did you give them?"  
  
"Everything," Chakotay offers me a sad smile. "You know, I don't have a home to go back to. My family owned that land for years and now, well, I exchanged it for protection. I suppose Admiral Paris knows who owns it now."  
  
"Or did," I say grimly.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Owen Paris is dead. He died in the explosion."  
  
Chakotay chuckles. I look at him in surprise; my former first officer is not one to exhibit inappropriate emotion.   
  
"That's one way to clear a conscience," Chakotay says. "And it makes me wonder, yes, I wonder..."  
  
"Wonder what?"  
  
But on this question, Chakotay is strangely silent; his eyes take on a faraway look. After a few minutes, he rouses himself.  
  
"You must be hungry," he says.  
  
"Actually, I'd like to talk about returning to Voyager."  
  
"Food first," he says.  
  
I recognize a challenge when one is thrown down. I nod.  
  
"Food then."  
  
*****  
  
"Hi."  
  
B'Elanna's voice is barely louder than a whisper, but it's enough to startle me right out of my seat. She looks at me sleepily, her eyes barely open. I grab her hand.  
  
"You came," she says.   
  
"Of course."  
  
I brush her hair away from her face. Her skin is still warm and slightly damp. She offers me a smile, the one that always hits me physically in the stomach.   
  
"How do you feel?" I ask. I look around for a tricorder and spot one on a low shelf. I grab it and come back to B'Elanna. "According to this, you're on the road to recovery."  
  
"That's good news." B'Elanna squints at me. "You look tired, Tom. Did you spend the entire night in that chair?"  
  
"Pretty much," I smile. "Your friend Herid offered me a spot on his sofa for the night, but I have a hearty sense of self-preservation."  
  
"He wouldn't have hurt you."  
  
"Your friends still hate me, B'Elanna. I have the bruises to prove it."  
  
B'Elanna struggles to sit up, and winces at the exertion. I help her, placing my arm directly behind her shoulders.  
  
"You fought with him?"  
  
"A little fight. Over you," I grin at her.   
  
"Over me?" she laughs. "No, really. What did you fight about?"  
  
"It's not important, B'Elanna. We've agreed to avoid each other at all costs."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"It's not your fault. You didn't answer my question. How do you feel?"  
  
"You're changing the subject again."  
  
"So are you."  
  
"I didn't think I was alive," B'Elanna confesses. "I was there. In gre'thor."  
  
"That's what the Doctor speculated."  
  
"Is the Doctor here?"  
  
"Yes, but he's off-line right now."  
  
B'Elanna lifts her arm and cautiously moves her fingers.  
  
"You may have some stiffness," I tell her. "We weren't sure if you'd get full mobility back."  
  
She nods as she stares at her fingers.   
  
"Hey," I say softly. "In no time at all, you'll be puttering about again. It'll just take some time."  
  
"Yeah, I know," B'Elanna says. She stares over my shoulder. "How long have you been here?"  
  
"Just a day. Seems longer than that, though."  
  
"You were there."  
  
"Where?"  
  
"In my... in gre'thor with me. You had planned a honeymoon. You wanted to go to Chicago, that's what you planned, and at the last moment, you changed your mind and we were going to go to a beach instead. A real beach."  
  
"That sounds nice."  
  
"And then you left. I - I reached out for you, but you vanished." B'Elanna bites her lip and she fumbles around on the biobed with her stiff arm.  
  
"Hey there, careful," I say. "Tell me what you want, B'Elanna."  
  
"I didn't know," she goes on, almost as if I never spoke. "I thought it was real. And then there were the ghosts... the walking dead. They were there too. I asked for forgiveness and they, they didn't..."  
  
I wrap my arms around her as best as I can. She lays her forehead on my shoulder as I run my fingers through her hair. B'Elanna shivers, but I make no further move to ask her what is wrong.   
  
There are many things I've learned during the course of our rather erratic relationship and one lesson is that you never ask questions that hint at any kind of emotional weakness. B'Elanna and I, we don't do that. We cry in silent, letting only the puffiness of our eyes speak for what we cannot say, and we nurse our battle scars in dark corners where the other cannot see what bleeds.   
  
After a few minutes, B'Elanna lifts her head. Her eyes are still watery, but she seems calmer now.  
  
"What happens now?" she asks.   
  
"I don't know. It's up to the Captain and Chakotay, I suppose."  
  
"Chakotay doesn't want to leave."  
  
"He doesn't?"   
  
"No."  
  
"Do you?"  
  
"And go where?"  
  
Good question. Where to go? Given that those of us with less than stellar service records will probably find ourselves scrubbing pots in foul smelling kitchens for a living, the possibility of living happily ever in a castle on a hill seem rather remote.   
  
"I don't know," I admit.  
  
"What if they don't let us go?" she asks.  
  
"I never thought of this place as home sweet home, but I suppose it would have to do."  
  
"You'd stay here? With me?"  
  
"B'Elanna," I lean in so that we're eye to eye. "I would have stayed in the Delta Quadrant with you. You really only had to ask."  
  
She puts her hand on my chest as she lowers her eyes.   
  
"I don't want to doubt you, Tom. I'm sorry."  
  
"It's all right. I know."  
  
At that moment, we hear the hiss of the EMH coming online.  
  
"Please state - ah, B'Elanna, Mr. Paris," the Doctor sounds positively jubilant. I wish I could sound that alive first thing after getting out of bed. As it is, I'm bleary-eyed and positively cranky in the morning before that first cup of that all-rejuvenating caffeine brew. And B'Elanna, well, she's not a morning person either; you don't even look at her unless you want to be turned to stone. And even after two cups of coffee, you're still treading on dangerous ground with my temperamental wife. "How do you feel, B'Elanna?"  
  
"Fine."  
  
"My tricorder begs to differ."  
  
"Excuse me?" there's a decidedly violent edge to B'Elanna's voice. I grin at the Doctor and he shrugs his photonic shoulders in surrender. Apparently, the Doctor has been paying close attention to his lessons; you never argue with a Klingon who says she feels fine.  
  
"You should take it easy," the Doctor says.   
  
"Don't worry," I assure him. "I'll make sure she does."  
  
It's a good thing B'Elanna's arm is still stiff otherwise I'm sure she would have taken a nice swipe at me. Impulsively, I lean in to kiss her on the cheek. When I look at her, she is smiling.   
  
"Then I will trust you to Mr. Paris' care," the Doctor says. "Lieutenant - you are still a   
lieutenant, aren't you?"  
  
I shrug, "I don't know. I don't know anything anymore."  
  
"It doesn't matter," the Doctor sighs melodramatically. "We'll all be scattered across the galaxy, communicating via subspace. We'll be friends, not fellow officers."  
  
"What is he talking about?" B'Elanna asks.  
  
"New assignments," I tell her. "The Captain has already been reassigned."  
  
"Everyone?"  
  
"Just her. The rest of us were - are - supposed to get our assignments when we reached Deep Space Nine."  
  
"Oh."  
  
God, when someone gets under your skin the way B'Elanna has gotten under mine, you know exactly what that person is thinking, even if they don't articulate those thoughts. I smile at her but say nothing. After all, I don't know what's happening anymore than she does and there are questions without answers. I imagine we'll figure it out as we go along.   
  
And that, in a nutshell, is the plan.  
  
~ end part VI ~  
  
****  
  
You take an inherent risk when you fall in love.  
  
Mark and I, we met at a stuffy reception at Headquarters. We stood on a balcony, enjoying the chill of the autumn evening, champagne in hand, and comparing the puffed-out chests of the assembled. We never set out for anything more than the pleasure of another's company.   
It was always the little things that got me; the way his brow would furrow when he was deep in the thought, the way his eyes lit up when he saw me or the way his hair stood up on end in the mornings.  
  
I never really thought much of what I was doing with Mark. And then one morning, I woke up and there was Mark, lying next to me, his arm across his face, the sheets down by his waist, and I drew my knees to my chest and stared at him. I think I sat there for a good ten minutes, just staring at him, and realized that I liked waking up next to him. I realized that I liked knowing that he was there at night when I came home and reveled in the feeling that he was the first person I wanted to tell everything too.  
  
And so, if you term that love, then yes, I did love Mark.  
  
Now, Chakotay, that's another story entirely.  
  
Nothing easy there, nothing at all.  
  
As we walk across the hard ground, Chakotay doesn't look at me at all. In fact, he does his best to avoid speaking at all and I wonder where this sudden coolness comes from.  
  
Damn him.  
  
Damn what I feel for him.  
  
A professor once stood up in front of my class back at the Academy and dropped the profound philosophy of marriage on us; he said, very seriously too, that you should never marry for love.  
  
"One day you'll wake up and the love is gone and all you have is this person," he lectured. "You should have something else, something more than a memory of love to hold you together. Otherwise you will start to feel annoyed with those habits, which tinted by the first blush of love were adorable or endearing. No, listen, you must have something more than love."  
  
And even in those days, I thought like the scientist I wanted desperately to be and could not reconcile myself to an emotion that defied explanation or basic in solid theory. The very thought of a quickening pulse and elevated temperature at the appearance of a particular person did not appeal to me because I could not understand such a response without resorting first to science.  
  
My father once told me that there existed those things that could not be explained and such was love; that particular emotion was a force unending and unbending.  
  
What dismayed me most about the concept of love was the singularly frightening thought that you   
could choose whom you loved; you could not choose who would love you back.  
  
I did not mean to fall in love.  
  
I did not want to fall in love.  
  
Damn.  
  
Damn. Damn. Damn.  
  
Some nights, I would look over at Chakotay and note the way his dark hair flopped over his tattoo. I would dwell on that tiny cleft in his chin, the one that is barely noticeable unless you are eye-level with it. I would run my lips over his cheek, his stubble harsh against my own soft skin, and his eyes would open, almost as if my touch shocked him.  
  
Sometimes, I would trace my fingers over those long, sinewy limbs, dragging my fingertips through the soft tufts of hair on his chest. In the soft candlelight - the slender tapers, which I replicated from hoarded rations - I would focus on the small colorless spot on his lower lip and then I would run my fingers over his cheekbones. Sometimes I would tease him about the way he carefully trimmed his eyebrows and kept them blunted at the edges.  
  
You don't notice these things without reason.  
  
Even when we went toe to toe, I was always so aware of him.  
  
It was impossible, always, to ignore Chakotay, even when I wanted to, even when I knew that I should.   
  
And the way he gets to me... God. I didn't think it possible for someone to stand across the room, not raise his voice, and yet still make me profoundly aware of his presence.  
  
If Chakotay knows, he gives no indication. Rather, he torments me in that rather careless but quiet way of his. The way his eyes glow with an intensity, the way his voice slightly cracks when he thinks I'm wrong - all of these are signs of something, something that neither of us dares to name.  
  
But what damns me most is the simplest of all.  
  
Chakotay has this way of saying my name. Somehow, he manages to round the vowels and soften the syllables. His voice caresses me even though his hands remain resolutely at his side. Sometimes, I'll turn away from the viewscreen, see Chakotay, observe that sly smile of his, and know that he was not looking at the same thing I was.  
  
So you see, it's entirely different.  
  
I am the captain; he is my first officer.  
  
I am Starfleet; he is Maquis.  
  
It shouldn't have been this way.  
  
The first time I truly let him in, right after Kashyk, I should have known better. But I buried my face into the smooth curve of his neck, inhaled deeply, and I couldn't pull away.   
  
Night after night, there he was, in my bed, and promptly, before our shift, he would slip out from under the covers, get dressed and leave.  
  
How no one knew the truth about our relationship remains a mystery to me.  
  
Or maybe out of respect, they - Voyager's crew - remained silent and respectful. Strange, because they never afforded Tom and B'Elanna that same courtesy.   
  
Chakotay's shoulder brushes mine and he looks at me.  
  
"Sorry," he says shortly.  
  
Physically, we have never been closer. If I dared, I could reach up and run my fingertips down his pink cheek and trace the strong curve of his jaw. I could smooth hair mussed by the chilly wind in one smooth gesture; yet for all of that, I have never felt more distant from this man.  
  
I think it's true what my professor said all those years ago.  
  
I never thought it would apply to me.  
  
****  
  
B'Elanna, exhausted by her illness, sleeps while the EMH remains offline. I haven't seen the   
Captain in hours, so I take the opportunity to search Janeway out.  
  
Outside, I find Tuvok, on his way to the Delta Flyer.   
  
"Have you seen the Captain?" I ask.  
  
"They are in there," he points to the meeting hall.  
  
"Anything important?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Jessup doesn't look at me as I enter the meeting hall. In fact, he does his damndest to stay the hell away. It doesn't matter; I'm not into making friends today. I see Janeway and Chakotay and make a beeline for them.  
  
"Tom, how's B'Elanna feeling?" the captain asks. Chakotay does not look up. The Captain shrugs.  
  
"She's awake," I say. "And looks like she'll be just fine."  
  
"That's good to hear."  
  
They both have food on their plates, but neither appears to be eating.   
  
"Join us," Chakotay says.  
  
"Please," Janeway indicates the chair next to her.  
  
I eye them both warily.  
  
"What's going on?" I ask.  
  
"Chakotay has been filling me in on some background," Janeway says evenly. "Putting the pieces together, if you will."  
  
I sit down next Janeway and look across the table at Chakotay. Chakotay and I have always had a tumultuous relationship, ranging from pure dislike to cool neutrality. Some days, we actually managed to have a conversation, but other days we could barely stand to look at each other.   
  
Back during my short, lamented stint with the Maquis, Chakotay looked at me with narrowed eyes; for the most part though, I was grateful that he did not bestow me with the same dislike the other Maquis, including B'Elanna, reserved especially for me. I think, even then, Chakotay saw something redeemable in an arrogant young pilot and when I surrendered to Starfleet, I thought with a pang that I would never truly know what prompted Chakotay to take a chance on me.  
  
During all of our time on Voyager, I never asked Chakotay about the Maquis. The lines were drawn so clearly, the boundaries of what we could and could not talk about, and the Maquis was one of those.   
  
Once, during a late night in Sandrine's, I looked across the table at Chakotay, who seemed completely fixated on the Captain and I said very softly, "I'm sorry."  
  
I don't know if the former Maquis leader heard me because he did not acknowledge me at all. In fact, even if he heard me, my time on Voyager had given me plenty to apologize for.   
  
"Anything I'd be interested in?" I ask easily.  
  
"Quite a bit, actually," Chakotay says. Janeway looks over at me and gently runs her fingers over the curve of my jawbone.  
  
"You've been hurt," she says very softly.  
  
"Nothing serious."  
  
Chakotay raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Janeway breathes deeply.  
  
"What's going on?" I ask.  
  
"It's about your father," the Captain says.  
  
I look across the room at the former Maquis who are laughing about something. Back when I was one of them - and I use that phrase very loosely - the Maquis fighters seemed to possess a special camaraderie and in some ways, I envied their ease with each other and their openness. A part of me wanted to reach out and ask - no, beg - for friendship, but instead, it was much easier to turn to a bottle of alcohol and turn into the charming Tom Paris, quick with a joke and suave with the ladies.   
  
No wonder they hated me.  
  
I hated me too.  
  
"What about him?" I ask.   
  
"I don't like to speak ill of the dead-" Janeway begins, but then she pauses as Tuvok approaches us.  
  
"Voyager will arrive in a few hours," Tuvok addresses the Captain. "They had already set a course when they received B'Elanna's message. Starfleet Headquarters is anticipating our arrival."  
  
"We're going to San Francisco?" I ask.  
  
"Yes," Janeway nods. "I need to clear some things up and I can't do it from here."  
  
"What about your posting on the Dauntless?" I ask.   
  
Janeway shakes her head.  
  
"Not important," she says. "I've turned it down."  
  
Chakotay looks surprised.  
  
"You didn't tell me that, Kathryn."  
  
"I had Tuvok rely the message for me," the Captain says. "Chakotay, we've got to figure this out, okay? If I accept the posting on the Dauntless, who will fight for you?"  
  
"We're quite capable of fighting our own battles."  
  
"I know." Janeway reaches across the table to cover Chakotay's hand with her own. "But please, indulge me on this one. I need to see it through."  
  
"In the meantime, I think we Maquis need to stay here."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Janeway seems genuinely shocked by Chakotay's statement. "I know you wanted to stay here permanently, but I thought you would come to San Francisco with me to   
find out what's going on."  
  
Chakotay shakes his head. "According to the others, the political climate for the Maquis back on Earth is nothing short of homicidal. It may be best for all involved if you negotiate without the constant reminder of... our activities. I think our presence would only make it more difficult for you."  
  
"What about B'Elanna?" I ask. After our recent misadventures, I have no intention of leaving B'Elanna behind; left to her own devices, I have no doubt she'll run off and join another Collective.   
  
"B'Elanna included," Chakotay says flatly. His expression dares me to fight him, but I know that this is one battle I cannot win; unfortunately, when it comes to choosing between Chakotay and me, B'Elanna will always go with Chakotay. I can't explain how I know this - or even how much it hurts me - but there it is: the plain, unvarnished truth. And can I help it if I'm a little greedy? A little quality time with the wife isn't too much to ask, considering I'm a newly married man. But of course, given Janeway and Chakotay - and their complete lack of perception when it comes to anything mildly romantic - I have a feeling that my honeymoon with B'Elanna is going to have to wait a bit longer.  
  
"I can't change your mind?" Janeway's voice is low, throaty, and uncomfortably seductive. I squirm a bit in my chair. Chakotay shakes his head. Janeway inhales deeply and then stabs a piece of vegetable with her fork.   
  
"Maybe it's not as bad as you think it is," I put in. Chakotay glances at me.  
  
"I'd like to be optimistic, Tom, but I also have to be realistic. We're better off staying here."  
  
Janeway breathes in deeply again and then puts her fork down.  
  
"The Doctor will remain here also, just in case," Janeway says. "Tom, I know you're disappointed; we'll come back for B'Elanna. Soon, I promise."  
  
Her own tone drips with disappointment and not for the first time, I wonder if there is something more between the captain and her first officer.  
  
I bite my lip. I understand what they are saying in theory, but in practicality, I don't know how I can leave B'Elanna. But then, I've always been real good at running away, so maybe this could be yet another opportunity to do what I excel at.  
  
"If that's how you feel," I say. "If that's what would be best for everyone involved..."  
  
"That's how I feel," Chakotay says defiantly.   
  
"You do what you think best," Janeway says in that tone that says she's not finished with Chakotay yet; he knows it too but looks defiantly back at his former captain. It's amazing; reconciling the utterly calm Chakotay with his crazy outlaw friends has brought a bit of defiance and spark back to his demeanor. I like Chakotay this way; somehow, he looks more... alive.  
  
I clear my throat.   
  
"Did you have something to tell me?" I ask.  
  
Janeway and Chakotay exchange a look, one more deep and telling than any of the million suggestive looks that passed between them over the past few years. I'd always wondered about those non-verbal communications of theirs. There were times too, when B'Elanna and I were at odds with each other, I envied the natural closeness between the Captain and her first officer; it was a relationship of mutual respect, deference and maybe, something more.  
  
"About my father?" I persist. "You said you had something to tell me."  
  
"Tom," the Captain leans forward, her hand moving off of Chakotay's and onto mine; now I know I'm in trouble. The Captain, always inclined to tactility, is even more touchy-feely when she's about to drop a bombshell. "Tom, I've got something to tell you."  
  
I look at her, thinking maybe there is joke hidden beneath this uncharacteristic redundancy of hers.  
  
"You don't have to protect me," I tell her. "It's worse if you try to sugarcoat whatever it is you're trying to tell me."  
  
"Right," she says. And then for the third time, she says, "Tom, I've got something to tell you."  
  
~ end part VII ~  
  
****  
  
Tom listens carefully as I detail his father's betrayals; I use "betrayals," even though it's a rather harsh word and Tom noticeably winces when I say the word.   
  
When I finish, Tom droops, his shoulders slumping, his head hanging down.   
  
"Tom?" I ask softly. Next to me, Chakotay stirs uncomfortably in his chair.   
  
"I'm sorry," Chakotay says.   
  
"I know this is a shock to you. I was stunned by the revelation also," I say.   
  
More silence. Tom simply sits; it's almost like he's deflated, all of the energy squeezed out of his body. I get up and cross the short distance between us. I put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze gently, but Tom shrugs off my touch.  
  
"I don't need your comfort," he tells me shortly.   
  
"Look, I know you've had some difficulty dealing with your father's death and this-"   
  
"How would you know?" he challenges. "How would you know if I had difficulty and why would you care?"   
  
"Tom," I say. "You know I care. I don't know why you would question that."   
  
"I'm not questioning it; I'm only saying that you and Chakotay and everyone else, you all have kind words, appropriate words, but none of you truly know or understand what I feel. So don't say that you care because I don't know what you're caring about."  
  
"That's not fair," Chakotay interjects.   
  
"Aw, hell," Tom gets to his feet. "Who said anything was fair? If life had been fair, I wouldn't have had to cheat on an exam. If life were fair, no one would have died at Caldik Prime and most of all, if life had been fair, there would have been no Maquis. Am I right, Commander?"  
  
"Okay, then, you're right," Chakotay says. "Life is not fair, but that's no reason for you to lash out at the Captain."   
  
"It's okay," I tell Chakotay. "Tom, look, you've gone through a lot. I want to help you through it."   
  
"Look who's talking," Tom says to Chakotay. "This is a woman who allowed herself to get assimilated by the Borg and when she returned, she did not even blink; she did not even think of the consequences of her actions."  
  
"Why do you keep bringing it up?" I ask.   
  
"You talk about helping me; you can't even help yourself." Disgust drips from Tom's voice and I shiver at the coldness in his blue eyes. "You don't even know the first thing about empathy."  
  
"That's no way to talk to your captain," Chakotay says. My former first officer gets to his feet.   
  
"Is she even still a captain? There seems to be some doubt about that," Tom retorts icily.   
  
"That's enough!" Chakotay and Tom are now standing mere centimeters from each other, both of them looking as infuriated as I've ever seen them.  
  
"I'm not done," Tom says.   
  
"Oh yes you are," Chakotay answers.   
  
"Gentlemen," I say quietly. My voice shakes, but I try to appear confident to them. Both turn to   
look at me. "Commander, if I could have a minute with Tom?"  
  
"I'll be outside," Chakotay answers.   
  
Tom and I stand in silence as Chakotay leaves. I take a deep breath, count to ten and then I speak.   
  
"You have every right to be angry," I tell Tom. "With me, your father, with anyone you choose. You don't have the right to vent that anger in an unproductive manner."  
  
"How do you suggest I vent that anger? Counseling sessions? Maybe I ought to lie on a couch and talk about my ambivalence for authority and my incorrigible nature brought on by a fierce need for attention from a distant and cold father. How does that sound? In fact, you could even sit right there and listen. I bet you'd like that. I bet you'd like to take your personal reclamation project one step further and eradicate my demons, real or imagined. How does that sound? You could even take the credit for the new, improved Tom Paris. I bet you'd like that."  
  
"Sounds like you have a lot of anger," I say stupidly. You know, they don't really teach this kind of thing back in Starfleet Academy; it's definitely an on-the-job developed skill, and even after seven years of command, I still don't know how to reach out to Tom or B'Elanna or any of the others. Even Chakotay, whom I feel closest to, accuses me of remoteness.   
  
I don't mean to be cold; I want to be fair. That's all I've ever wanted - to be a fair and good captain. Admittedly, I've had the loyalty of my crew for the last seven years, but whether I earned it or they gave it to me blindly - because that's the Starfleet way - I don't know.  
  
I suppose there are questions you'll never know the answers to.   
  
Maybe it's better that way.   
  
"Tom?" I venture cautiously. "I'm sorry you feel that way."   
  
"Yeah, you're sorry, I'm sorry, we're all sorry. Who even cares?"   
  
"Don't use anger to push me away. Not now."   
  
"How can you possibly understand what I'm going through?"   
  
"Look, I admired your father. It shocked me when Chakotay told me what happened all those years   
ago. I would never have guessed that Admiral Paris could be capable of doing such things."  
  
"Well, I don't believe it," Tom says.   
  
"Are you accusing Chakotay of lying?"   
  
"I'm saying I'm not letting my father off that easily."   
  
"I don't understand."   
  
"All of my life, my father has been a shining paragon of virtue and duty. He never even had dust on his shoes, not even when he walked up the path to our front door. Even dirt stood in formation for Owen Paris. No, he would never do what you're accusing him of. Making a covert deal with the DMZ colonists against Starfleet's specific orders, no, that's too easy."  
  
"Too easy because it gives you a way to knock him down a few notches?" my tone is unnecessarily   
cruel, but Tom doesn't seem to notice.  
  
"Yeah," he says softly. "I resented my father because he was so perfect. Perfect in every way and he wanted me to be just like him. I - Captain, I just wanted to be me. I know that sounds silly and maybe even somewhat juvenile, but I never really wanted a career in Starfleet. I don't even know that I wanted a career. Maybe all I wanted to do was drink synthale and shoot pool. What the hell is that matter with that?"  
  
"Well-"   
  
Tom holds up a hand.   
  
"I know what the matter was," he says. "I'm Owen Paris' son. Owen Paris' son was going to be someone whether he wanted to be or not. So you see, I'm not letting Dad off that easy."  
  
"You're going to have to, Tom."   
  
"No - there's something more here."   
  
"What do you intend to do?"   
  
Tom looks at me. "I'll ask my mother."   
  
There is something curiously appealing about a thirty-something Starfleet lieutenant looking for maternal reassurance even as his belief of what was dissolves into a blurry what is. You've got to seek your comfort somewhere and hell, in lieu of Chakotay, I'd go for my mother. But in Tom's case, I'm not sure that his mother is the best source of information or even comfort.  
  
There's something about Anya Paris that makes me wonder if she knows anything about her husband's extracurricular activities. I have a faint memory of a reed-thin blond with large, round blue eyes and nervous hands. She spoke in low, carefully modulated tones; I doubt she ever raised her voice. Anya capably hosted the gatherings at the Paris home with quiet elegance, always carefully and conservatively dressed in black, a string of pearls - no doubt real - around her neck. Yet, for all of her efficiency, in our few meetings, I rarely got a feel for the woman; in some ways, she didn't really exist or if she did, she kept her real personality subservient to that artificiality so exalted in the high ranks of Starfleet admiralty.   
  
"You think she'll know?" I ask very softly. Tom shrugs.   
  
"I'm ready to go home," he says, carefully side-stepping the question. "It's been a long time."   
  
"Yes."   
  
He sighs. "You think it's true, Captain?"   
  
"About your father? Yes. Chakotay has no reason to lie."   
  
"Is that why he hated me?"   
  
I look at him in surprise.   
  
"Because of my father?" Tom continues. His face takes on a pensive expression. "Chakotay never liked me. That's not saying much either, since the Maquis, including B'Elanna, hated me from the moment I showed up. Chakotay at least tried. I could still feel his dislike, no matter how  
he tried to suppress it and I thought, maybe if I could just prove myself... just once, maybe that would make all of the difference."  
  
"Is that why you took that mission? The one when you surrendered?"   
  
Tom looks at me in surprise; we have talked about many things in the past - Tom's short-lived career as an outlaw and his subsequent capture and incarceration, now those are topics we haven't touched. I suppose there are things you just don't mention out of consideration and maybe, he thought I didn't really know or remember what happened prior to his Voyager days.  
  
"Maybe," he answers guardedly. "Doesn't matter. The deck was stacked against me anyway; my father made sure of that. No matter what he did, he made sure there'd always be some kind of block in my way. The Paris name is a curse."  
  
"That's not true."   
  
"And how would you know?"   
  
"I wish you'd stop fighting me, Tom."   
  
He looks at me, almost sadly.   
  
"Yeah," he says. "Me too."   
  
"Have you told B'Elanna?"   
  
"No, not yet. I will."   
  
I take a deep breath. "I am sorry, Tom."   
  
"Not as sorry as I am," he says. "I still don't believe it. My father wouldn't go back on his word; it would be out of character for him."  
  
"I agree."   
  
"Something must have happened to him," Tom says stubbornly.   
  
"Possibly," I agree.   
  
"Or there's a mistake."   
  
"There's that option also."   
  
"Yeah," Tom says. "If you'll excuse me, Captain, I'd like to say good-bye to B'Elanna."   
  
I nod and watch him leave. I sit down on the couch and breathe deeply, not even looking up when Chakotay reenters.   
  
"I saw Tom," Chakotay says.   
  
"Yeah?"   
  
"Did it go all right once I was gone?"   
  
"Fairly. He's angry. Really angry."   
  
"That's to be expected."   
  
Chakotay kneels in front of me, intertwining his fingers with mine.   
  
"Are you angry with me?" he asks very softly.   
  
"No. If anything, I'm angry at myself."   
  
"Want to talk about it?"   
  
"Not especially."   
  
"One day you're going to have to talk."   
  
"Now you sound like me when I talk to Tom."   
  
Chakotay quirks a smile. "Ironic, isn't that? Maybe you should take your own advice every now   
and then."   
  
"Reconsider," I tell him. "Don't stay here. Come with me."   
  
"You know I can't do that."   
  
"Can't or won't?"   
  
"My life is here."   
  
"I need you."   
  
Chakotay releases my hands. "You've never needed me, Kathryn. You only pretended to."   
  
"That's not true. How many times do I have to apologize? I swear, all I've done since we've gotten home is apologize. I'm tired of it."  
  
"So stop," Chakotay says calmly. "Stop apologizing. Do what you mean to do and do it with confidence, not regret."   
  
"Easier said than done."   
  
He puts his cool hands against my cheek and draws me in closer so that our foreheads touch; his skin is cold against mine.  
  
"You take care of you," he says very quietly. "I can't do that for you. I've tried, Kathryn. So many times, I've tried-"  
  
"So this is it?"   
  
"Depends what you mean by that."   
  
"Means you're putting a pretty big stamp of finality on us."   
  
"That's where you're wrong," Chakotay releases my face and stands up. He takes a few steps and then turns to look back at me.  
  
"There never was an us, Kathryn. Only you existed. Everyone else was convenient to you."  
  
"That's not fair.   
  
"But you don't deny it either."  
  
I twist my hands together. "I do regret that. It's a hard lesson to learn, Chakotay."   
  
"I know," he crouches in front of me. "But you're going to have to learn this one without me. I - I can't help you, no matter how much I want to."  
  
I grip his shoulders tightly, but he doesn't react. After a few minutes, he disentangles himself gently from my desperate embrace.   
  
"I'm going to check on the Delta Flyer. I need to check on something with Tuvok," he says. "Take your time."   
  
And as he leaves, I'm so tempted to ask, so tempted, but dignity holds me back; the truth wounds and the last thing I need to know now is that Chakotay never cared.  
  
~ end part VIII ~  
  
****   
  
B'Elanna is awake and feisty, bickering with the Doctor, when I enter. She smiles at me, a full-force, radiant smile.   
  
"You must be feeling better," I say.   
  
"Much better," she beams. I lean over and give her a kiss on the cheek.   
  
"I can attest to that," the Doctor says. "She has been complaining for hours. I tell you, I've never had a more miserable patient than Lieutenant Torres."  
  
"That doesn't surprise me," I grin at B'Elanna. "Hey, Doc, can you give us a moment? I need to talk to B'Elanna."   
  
"Something wrong?" B'Elanna asks. She is sitting up on the biobed, knees drawn to chest, and I notice that she is wearing drab brown - the same colors she wore as a Maquis operative. After all these years together, I know that B'Elanna looks best in red; after all, red is the only color that can compete with my firebrand wife.   
  
"You might say that," I tell her. Quickly, I relate to her the story Janeway spun so eloquently for me. B'Elanna listens in rapt attention, her chin resting in her palm. When I finish, I look at her for some measure of shock, but she shrugs.  
  
"What?" I ask. "What does that expression mean?"   
  
"I was there, Tom," she says. "I know what happened."   
  
"How come you never said anything?"   
  
"Because I didn't know his name," she says in exasperation. "Eddington did all of the talking and he and Chakotay actually worked out the details. I was just there in case anything happened to the ship. I wasn't even in the room when the discussions were going on. Can you imagine if I were the one doing the negotiations? The outcome would have been much worse if they had let me into that room."  
  
I nod. B'Elanna as a negotiator? Wouldn't happen. She's too hot-tempered, too quick to jump to conclusions and prone to leaping across tables and grabbing unsuspecting victims by the throat; some, like me, might enjoy being throttled by B'Elanna, but others would call her diplomatic efforts attempted murder.   
  
"I can't believe you never told me," I say.  
  
"It never came up."   
  
"For God's sake, B'Elanna. This was important. How could you keep it from me?"   
  
"Because it never worked. It was a deal that fell through. I never kept anything from you. What did you want me to do? Go to Chakotay and say, `hey, who was that guy you dealt with back when we thought Starfleet might help?' It didn't matter, Tom, so I didn't ask. Besides, in the Maquis, the less you knew, the better."  
  
"I don't believe my father would do such a thing. I don't believe he would lie to women and children and then turn his back on him. That's not like him."  
  
"Well, why don't you ask him?" B'Elanna asks.   
  
"Because he's dead."   
  
B'Elanna recoils. "Tom, I-I'm sorry. I- I didn't know."   
  
"Died in the explosion," I tell her. "He didn't get off the starbase in time, but he did get you off. I suppose I should be grateful for that."  
  
"What are you talking about?" B'Elanna gets off the biobed and waits a second, steadying herself, before she takes my hand. "Tom, this is important. Talk to me."  
  
"I am talking to you now. He didn't get off, but he somehow forged a release order to get you, Chakotay and the others off of the starbase prior to the explosion."  
  
"That's not what I meant," she says quietly. "Tom, are you all right?"   
  
"I'm fine," I tell her briskly. "Nothing a beer or two and some cartoons won't take care of."   
  
"Don't be ridiculous," she snaps. "Your father died. It's natural for you to feel something. Damn, even I felt something when I went to gre'thor and realized my mother might be dead. You lost a parent-"  
  
"Now you sound like the Captain. Why the hell are you all always trying to get me to talk about how I feel? Damn, I'm tired of that!"  
  
"Are you yelling because you're angry at me or with your father?"  
  
"Sorry," I calm down immediately. "I'm not mad at you. I'm sorry. I- I just don't want to believe what they told me and-"   
  
"Why can't you, Tom? You know Chakotay and the Captain wouldn't lie to you."   
  
"But there has to be some reason why. Why? That's what I don't understand. If I knew why, maybe I could reconcile myself to this - to knowing this thing about my father."  
  
B'Elanna runs her hand up and down my arm. Her touch is light and welcome. I realize how much I've truly missed her over the last week. And it's not just the fact I've been waking up without her days, it's more of breathing her in, hearing her voice, seeing her eyes light up in that way meant just for me. I wrap my arms around her and she buries her head against my shoulder.  
  
"I don't want my final memory of my father to be one that is so... negative," I tell her quietly.   
  
"Why do you feel the need to redeem him?" B'Elanna asks reasonably. It takes me a long time to compose an articulate answer in my mind.  
  
Until this very moment, I hadn't thought there might be a reason for my need to know why my father would have done something so contrary to his beliefs.   
  
"Because it's something I would have done," I tell B'Elanna frankly. "Make a promise for my own gain and then renege on it. God, you don't know how many promises I've broken in the past. I think a part of me wants to be... redeemable?"  
  
B'Elanna pulls away from me and cups my cheek in her hand.   
  
"And you don't think you are?" her voice is scarcely above a whisper. "Tom, no. Please. Don't think like that. No. I hate it when you do that to yourself."   
  
"You don't count; you're biased."   
  
"I think I do count," she leans in for a soft flutter of a kiss. "If nothing else, you, you redeemed me."   
  
I run my fingers through her hair and kiss her gently on the forehead, cheeks, and lips. God, how I've missed her. Missed this. In a way, with B'Elanna right here, maybe all of this doesn't matter; maybe everything I've been fighting against, well, maybe it's time to surrender.   
  
"Yeah?" I whisper.   
  
"Yeah," she says, smiling at me. "Yeah."   
  
I gently disentangle myself from her arms.   
  
"I'm leaving, B'Elanna."   
  
"What are you talking about?"   
  
"Voyager is on its way to rendezvous with the Delta Flyer. We're setting a course for San Francisco."   
  
"I want to come with you."   
  
"I'm afraid you can't. Chakotay wants you to stay."   
  
"Why?"   
  
"Chakotay thinks you were brought here for a reason, B'Elanna, and he could be right. I- I don't want anything to happen to you. Please, stay here."   
  
"I almost died on this planet," she says. She moves her arm gingerly. "And you want me to stay here?"   
  
"The Doctor has synthesized an antidote for the virus; you should be fine."   
  
"I don't want you to be alone, Tom, not after everything that has happened."   
  
"I'll be fine."   
  
"I should be with you."   
  
"I have Harry."   
  
"Harry, right. Are you comparing me to Harry?"   
  
"There's no competition, B'Elanna, believe me. I'll be fine. Please, stay here until we get everything figured out. I promise, as soon as we find out what's going on, I'll come and get you. I promise."  
  
She looks at me contemplatively and I reach to squeeze her hand.  
  
"I'm being selfish, B'Elanna," I tell her. "Chakotay seems to think you will be better off here and I want you with me. But at the same time, I have to acknowledge that given our circumstances... I don't want anything to happen to you, B'Elanna. So promise me you'll stay?"  
  
"I'm worried about you."  
  
"I know," I let go of her hand and squeeze her shoulder gently. "I... and maybe it's better that   
I do this alone? I need to be selfish, B'Elanna. Can you understand that?"  
  
She bites down on her lip and nods. I sigh in relief.  
  
"Thank you," I tell her. "You're wonderful."  
  
"Maybe you should tell me the truth. Is there a girlfriend back on Earth that you don't want me to know about?" B'Elanna musters up the barest hint of a smile.  
  
"Perhaps."   
  
"What's her name? I should probably warn her that you're a pig."   
  
"If you're going to do that, you might as well get it right. Tell her I'm an incorrigible pig,"   
  
I lean in for a kiss. "I'll miss you."   
  
"Hmmm?"   
  
"You know what I mean," I release her from my grip. "You do know, right?"   
  
She nods.   
  
"Yeah, Tom," she says. "I know."   
  
"Janeway to Paris."   
  
I sigh.   
  
"Paris here."   
  
"We're ready to go, Lieutenant."   
  
"Right. I'm on my way."   
  
I kiss B'Elanna one more time.   
  
"I know you won't miss me," I tell her.   
  
"Don't do anything stupid."   
  
"You know me," I answer.   
  
"That's what I'm afraid of."   
  
"Computer, activate the emergency EMH."   
  
The Doctor appears, wearing his usual dazed look. "Please - oh, Lieutenants. How nice to see you again."   
  
"I'm leaving," I tell him briskly.   
  
"What about me?"  
  
"You're staying here," I answer. I look over at B'Elanna, who doesn't look back at me. "Your skills - they're needed here."  
  
"You will come back?"  
  
"Of course." I'm still looking at B'Elanna but she refuses to look back at me. At that moment,   
  
Tuvok enters.  
  
"Lieutenant Paris," he says. "Are you ready to leave?"  
  
"Yes," I tell him.  
  
B'Elanna turns her back as we leave. I glance in one of the windows as we go past and I see her leaning against the biobed, one hand against her face. Tuvok looks at me curiously and I point towards the clearing where the Delta Flyer awaits us.  
  
"Let's go," I tell Tuvok. "We're getting late."   
  
****   
  
The first time I stepped on Voyager, I felt a sense of awe that has never quite dissipated; my ship never fails to amaze me and I wonder if this love affair of mine will ever end.  
In our private moments together, Chakotay would sometimes joke about my obsession with Voyager.  
  
"If it came down to me or the ship, which would you choose?" he asked one night, as we lay curled on the sofa, his hand gently rubbing the length of my thigh. "Or am I on dangerous ground?"  
  
"Dangerous ground."  
  
"Well? What's your answer?"  
  
"You're still asking? Even after that warning?"  
  
"I want to know."  
  
"What about the crew?"  
  
"If the crew didn't matter, would you choose the ship or me?"  
  
"Depends on circumstances." I drew my finger in a circle across his chest. He grabbed my fingers and pressed them to his lips. "This isn't a fair question."  
  
"I think you'd pick Voyager."  
  
"For God's sake, don't be so ridiculous."  
  
"I've seen the way you talk to Voyager," Chakotay said. He pressed his lips against my cheek for a moment before continuing. "There's a lot of tenderness there."  
  
"We understand each other."  
  
"Like lovers?"  
  
"It's a ship, Chakotay. You can't possibly make that kind of comparison."  
  
"But you use a certain kind of voice when you talk to Voyager," Chakotay protested. "It's low, husky... the one which never quite makes it out of your throat?"  
  
"This one?" I whispered. Chakotay smiled at me. He touched the side of my face, tucking a short strand of hair behind my ear.  
  
"Yeah," he whispered back. His lips brushed my throat and then his eyes met mine as his fingers trailed down my cheek. "That's the one."  
  
But joking aside, I did feel very proprietary about Voyager. I loved standing in the middle of the Bridge, taking a look around, and knowing that all this sophisticated technology belonged to me to command.  
  
A bit egotistical, isn't it?  
  
Allow me my arrogance, just this once.  
  
I'm already fearing the worse on our return to Headquarters. In my nightmares, Starfleet will give Voyager to someone else - someone who does not quite understand Voyager as I do. Or they might even scrap her down for salvage, an unworthy fate for a proud ship.  
  
So I take each step onto the Bridge as if it were my last and I memorize each detail, capturing each moment and freezing it in my faulty memory.  
  
I note Harry, his round face eager and enthusiastic, but his eyes filled with concern; he stands at his usual spot directly behind my chair. Tuvok stands slightly off-center at Tactical. Chakotay's chair is empty. I could ask Tuvok to fill it, but somehow, it seems disrespectful to replace my First Officer so quickly.  
  
Seven sits at B'Elanna's usual station, her blond head cocked to one side, her eyes alert and questioning. A couple lieutenants stand in the back, working busily; I'm ashamed to say that I did not take the time to greet them when I returned to the bridge.  
Paris usually takes the Helm, but in a rare moment of emotion, he asked for some leave.   
  
"Just a few hours," he said as we approached Voyager in the Delta Flyer. "I need some time to sort things out."  
  
"Take as long as you want."  
  
"I only need a few hours," Tom repeated firmly. He held my gaze firmly with his own before I looked away, feeling uncomfortable but not quite sure why.  
  
"Granted," I said.  
  
"Thank you," Tom replied with equal formality.  
  
So, Tom sulks - or so I imagine - in his quarters.   
  
I have half a mind to send Harry down to see Tom, but I get the feeling that Tom would not appreciate the gesture. Rather, a sympathetic expression from his best friend may shut Tom down completely. God knows if he won't share his feelings with B'Elanna or Harry, he'll throw himself out of an airlock before he talks to me.  
  
So there you have it.  
  
I am a woman with a ship. A good ship with a good crew, but seemingly at odds with the people who matter most to me.  
  
Seven, however, is still speaking to me, as are Harry and Tuvok; for small blessings, I should be grateful. But I am very much like that grandmother whose grandson is carried away by a tide; upon his return, she thanks God profusely, but wonders at the loss of the child's baseball hat.  
  
The viewscreen displays a star-map of our current coordinates; a yellow line plots out the best route to Earth while a red blinking dot signifies our progress. The helm officer - one Ensign Pablo Baytart - navigates expertly and without any sign of strain or nervousness.   
  
Baytart is an excellent pilot, competent, and generally good-natured. But despite these obvious attributes, I miss Tom at the helm. In a moment of tension, I can always count on Tom to whirl around in his seat and deliver a wisecrack. Right now, I could really use someone with a sense of humor on my bridge.  
  
"Captain?"  
  
Harry's questioning tone jerks me out of my reverie.  
  
"What is it, Harry?"  
  
"Incoming message from Admiral McArthur. It's marked confidential."  
  
"I'll take it in my Ready Room."  
  
"Sending it now."  
  
In my Ready Room, I first get a cup of coffee and then settle myself comfortably in my chair. I bring up my small view screen and after a few moments, I'm greeted with the rather perturbed expression of Rodney McArthur.  
  
"Kathryn, there have been questions about your activities," he begins.  
  
"It's good to see you too," I tell him.  
  
"I've defended you as much as I possibly can."  
  
"What's going on? Who's saying what?"  
  
"They know about your visit to Alonius Prime."  
  
"I didn't think that would stay a secret from long. Starfleet is better at surveillance than it wants to admit."  
  
"You have a lot of explaining to do when you get here."  
  
"Let's keep it simple, all right? I wanted to check on my people."  
  
"They are Maquis traitors."  
  
"To you, not to me."  
  
McArthur, in his sterile Starfleet office, leans forward, almost so close that his nose is uncommonly large; I resist the urge to smile. McArthur jabs his finger at the screen.  
  
"You have to choose, Kathryn," he says. "Loyalty to us or loyalty to them."  
  
"You can't be serious."  
  
"The Maquis betrayed the Federation; some of them were even Starfleet officers. We cannot make exceptions in this particular situation."  
  
"Are you sure you aren't spewing the agreed upon rhetoric? Or are you remembering the death of your son at the hands of the Maquis?"  
  
"So you know about that," McArthur says.  
  
"Yes. Chakotay told me."  
  
McArthur looks away from the screen and then after a few seconds, turns back to look at me.  
  
"A day does not pass when I don't think of John. I don't know what went wrong with my son, but I don't necessarily blame the Maquis for his death. I know they tried to help him, and for that, I'm grateful."  
  
"So you forgive them for the death of your son, but not the actions they took to protect their homes?"  
  
"You aren't going to change minds, Kathryn," McArthur says firmly. "The Maquis are universally reviled-"  
  
"Why is that? Is it because the people in power perpetuate the hatred? Or are you just repeating the party line?"  
  
"Don't take that tone with me, Kathryn," McArthur holds up a hand. "Look, I care about what happens to you. I don't care what happens to the Maquis. As long as they are on Alonius Prime, they are no one's problem."  
  
"That's quite the attitude."  
  
"It's an acceptable attitude," McArthur says. I sense from the tone of his voice that McArthur does feel some sympathy towards the former Maquis, despite his obvious reluctance to admit it.  
  
"Tell me," I say. "Whose idea was it to move the Maquis to Alonius rather than keeping them in a standard penal colony?"  
  
"I can't say for sure. There was a committee."  
  
"Were you on the committee?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Anyone else I would know?"  
  
"Owen Paris, of course."  
  
"Of course," I say. "Tell me, how well did you know Owen Paris? Because apparently, I didn't know him at all."  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
I quickly fill him in on the conversation I had with Paris back on the starbase and then the subsequent discovery of Paris' diplomatic efforts - if you can call them that - with the Maquis. McArthur settles back in his chair and blinks a few times.  
  
"I had no idea," he says flatly. I offer him my best poker face even though I suspect that my old mentor is blatantly lying to me.  
  
"From what I gather, Commander Chakotay was the only one who could really reveal Owen Paris' part in the scheme," I tell McArthur. "When I talked to Paris, he told me that you weren't part of the scheme, but I think he was lying to protect you. I think you're lying when you say you don't blame the Maquis for your son's death. I think you engineered the destruction of a starbase, to protect yourself, Admiral Paris and others. You intended for all the Maquis to die, didn't you, as revenge for your son's death? You stalled because you wanted Owen Paris to approve of your actions. You wanted him to come and qualify your actions. And even though he agreed, he still managed to evacuate the Maquis without your knowledge. That's what I think happened. What do you say, Admiral?"  
  
"What you're saying is ridiculous!"  
  
"Are you denying it?"  
  
"What you're accusing me of is preposterous."  
  
"I have proof, Admiral. One of my officers, Seven of Nine-"  
  
"The Borg?"  
  
I glare at the Admiral. "She is human, sir, just like you and me."  
  
The Admiral holds up a hand. "You do understand that there is some trepidation regarding this drone-"  
  
"We call her Seven, sir," I tell him coldly. "I request you do the same."  
  
McArthur fiddles with some buttons on his viewscreen and then he looks back at me.  
  
"What were you saying about proof?" he asks. His voice shakes, but I refuse to feel any sympathy for my former mentor.  
  
"As I was saying, Seven has run several simulations of the events leading to the core meltdown. I'll ask her to upload her findings to you, along with some of the logs she has compiled regarding the accident. I believe the evidence will show that you activated the process which eventually led to an overload of the central core and the destruction of the starbase."  
  
"You're accusing me of attempted murder," McArthur says. "We've known each other for years now, Kathryn. You must know that what you're saying isn't true."  
  
"Admiral, I know what kind of man you were." I lean forward in my chair. "Seven years ago, I was sure of everything and now, I realize I was deceived. Even in the Delta Quadrant, I held fast to ideals that you and Admiral Paris apparently abandoned long ago. People died in that explosion.   
I can give the families of the dead the answers they need."  
  
McArthur rubs his hand across his eyes.  
  
"You don't want to do this," he says. "You'll destroy my career and smear the reputation of a dead man with baseless accusations. How do you even know Chakotay is telling the truth?"  
  
"He has no reason to lie to me."  
  
"You won't be able to prove any of this."  
  
"I don't need to," I answer. "And I don't want to. You forget Paris' son is a member of my crew. I have no desire to taint his father's memory with accusations. And I've always admired Owen Paris. I would rather keep this information to myself. And Admiral, I don't want to ruin your career. I only want my people to be treated fairly."  
  
"I'd like to see the logs," McArthur says.  
  
"Will you destroy them?" I ask.  
  
"Destroy the information?"  
  
"Come now, Admiral," I lean forward and for a split second, I wonder if my nose appears as large to the Admiral as his did a few minutes ago. "If I give you the results of Seven's investigation, will you destroy it?"  
  
"I only want the truth, Kathryn."  
  
"Don't you already know it?" I ask sardonically. McArthur looks back at me sadly.  
  
"You've spun a fantastic theory. Truly ingenious and creative, but it's not true. I did not order the destruction of the starbase. And I was never involved in the Maquis scheme; Owen Paris was not lying to you when he said that."  
  
"You didn't answer my question. What about the data integrity?"  
  
McArthur nods then.  
  
"Fine," he says. "You have my word; your data will be safe with me. I have nothing to hide and your analysis will prove that."  
  
"If you say so. I'll have Seven begin the transfer with the hour."  
  
"Now, Kathryn," McArthur says. "There are some who think your actions in the Delta Quadrant are indefensible-"  
  
"I say they were necessary."  
  
"I don't believe there will be a court martial."  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
"Would you resign quietly? Or take a demotion?"  
  
"You can't be serious. A few days ago, you offered me another commission."  
  
"That was before your little jaunt to Alonius Prime. Kathryn, you ruined whatever little standing you had had. I fought for you, really I did, but there are none, save me, who would willingly give you another ship to command."  
  
"Are you telling me my career is over?"  
  
"I'm saying that you made a mistake."  
  
"I wanted to know about my people. What's so wrong with that?"  
  
"I refuse to talk in circles with you."  
  
I note that McArthur looks tired, looks old; his shoulders slump, and he rests most of his weight on his forearms. I'd like to take pity on him, for old time's sake, but the coldness in me prevents me from sympathizing in any way.  
  
"And here we were expecting a hero's welcome," I tell him bitterly. "For all the trouble it has been to return home, we should have stayed in the Delta Quadrant. At least there, we knew we couldn't trust anyone."  
  
"I am sorry," McArthur says. I simply shrug.  
  
"I'll see you in San Francisco," I tell him. "Janeway out."  
  
~ end part IX ~  
  
****  
  
My father always managed to get the last word in; even dead, he still gets to me. Harry says the logs arrived a few minutes after I left with Janeway and Tuvok for Alonius Prime. The date-stamp indicates that the logs were uploaded about thirty minutes prior to the destruction of the starbase.  
  
It's nice to know that my father's last thoughts were of me.  
  
My sisters and mother have also written to me. Nice of them, I think, to acknowledge that I'm alive. Right after Caldik Prime, I became person non grata for my mother and sisters. I bet they even talked about me in muted tones, the same way you'd talk about a cranky great-aunt, God rest her soul, who passed on to the great relief of the rest of the family.  
  
Mother, always concise and to the point, welcomes me home in her elegant but distant fashion; Isobel and Julia talk about their careers, their families, their homes, but reveal nothing of themselves in their words.  
  
It hurts, especially from Isobel, whom I had considered a close confidant, since she is only eighteen months younger than I am.  
  
I set their letters aside in favor of my father's logs.  
  
I admit, in the years since I last saw him, I've lost a sense of the man. Childish memories remember someone who was cold and distant, but then, you remember what you choose to.  
  
There were good times with my father, like the time he took me to the space museum or when he nervously guided me through my first flying experience.  
  
Why can't I remember the good instead of constantly dwelling on the constant friction between the two of us?  
  
I suppose because admitting I did care for my father and that I may have loved him in my own lazy way would hurt too much now.  
  
I enter my quarters, acutely aware of everything around me. I'm suddenly - and strangely - fascinated by the texture of the gray carpet. For the first time, I realize the lone painting - maroon and purple splashes of paint on a white canvas - on my wall is damn ugly. I never liked the bedspread and the pillows are soft and lumpy. B'Elanna's gray turtleneck, the one with the stain on the wrist from some Engineering mishap, lies on armrest of the sofa. I remember helping her out of that turtleneck, running my hands over her smooth skin, and then nibbling at that spot directly between the shoulder and neck, while she wrapped her arms around me.  
  
I kick off my shoes and let them lie where they fall; no one will be coming by to trip over them.  
  
Or so I hope.  
  
I have been thinking of this moment for hours now, this moment when I can actually sit down and with clarity, listen to my father's logs. I don't know what I hope to find, don't know what I'm going to feel; I suppose I'd just like to know that Owen Paris, at one time, was a real person.   
  
I want him to be flesh and blood, like me, and I want to know that he bled red like I do.  
  
An awful lot to ask, isn't it? And I know, as well as the last person, that you can't always get what you want.  
  
Especially where Owen Paris is concerned, there is no way you can hedge your bets.   
  
I lie down on my bed.   
  
"Computer, play logs of Admiral Owen Paris," I say.   
  
I close my eyes, put my hands behind my head and cross my feet at the ankles.  
  
Interestingly enough, this chunk begins the day Voyager vanished and my father's entry for that day consists of one line only: "My boy is gone."  
  
The next log entries are filled with excruciating detail regarding Starfleet's efforts to locate Voyager and also, of the various theories circulating about our strange disappearance. As months go on, Father's thoughts regarding Voyager and especially me, are relegated to a Cinderella-esque status; it's nice to know my return wasn't a burning obsession for Dad. His tone is occasionally conversational and sometimes even affectionate, especially when he talks about Julia's daughter, Linsey. He records Linsey's birth - in 2373 - with a sense of awe and then proceeds to spend the next year chronicling everything from the first tooth to the first step.   
  
His voice lulls me to sleep and when I wake up, I'm aware of a different tone.  
  
"Anya asked about Tom today," my father says. "She came into the kitchen and asked what I - what Starfleet - was doing to find her son. She emphasized the word `son,' maybe to drive home the point that she thinks I haven't contributed enough in the search for Tom. It's just another item in her long litany of ways I've let our son down. I've tried so many times to explain, but Anya won't listen. If I could, I would have saved Tom, but when do you stop? Anya thinks never. She thinks I should have stepped in after Caldik and she wouldn't speak to me after they - or as Anya would say, - I, sent Tom to New Zealand. Since he's disappeared, she hasn't said much at all. Not about Tom, not about anyone. Today, out of the blue, she asked. I told her that Starfleet has every reason to believe the crew of Voyager is alive and well. She didn't look convinced at all and she asked again, this time saying, `Owen, what are you doing to bring your son home?' and I was forced to admit the truth; I had done nothing but attend meetings and discuss various options, evaluate and discard. I had no solutions. Anya stood there in the doorway and she looked so - well, so not like Anya, that it scared me. I asked her what was wrong and she laughed. `If you have to ask, Owen,' she said and then her voice trailed off. Finally she said, `You know, it's all right, Owen, to say his name. You - we - can talk about Tom. I think - I think I would like that.' She left then, not giving me the chance to respond. I don't avoid talking about Tom - I don't have a way of talking about him that will leave me with a good feeling. That - that's a terrible thing to say about one's son. I wish things had been different."  
  
  
I stretch out and roll onto my back. My father's logs continue, but I'm no longer listening. In a way, I don't know if I have made a terrible mistake by invading the privacy of a dead man, but at the same time, he wanted me to have the damn logs. He wanted me to hear what he had to say.   
  
He wanted me to know that my mother actually cared enough to speak up and that no matter what he would say later, he had been so disappointed at one point that he did not know what to say about me.  
  
Damn cold place to be.  
  
Hurtful too.  
  
The logs of Owen Paris do a fairly decent job of telling me about Reginald Barclay's Pathfinder project from Starfleet's viewpoint. Apparently, the project earned a lot of scorn from the powers that be and poor Barclay had to put up with a great deal of ridicule before he finally received permission to go ahead; amazingly, it was my father who pushed for the Pathfinder project.  
  
"I haven't said anything to Anya but I think this Barclay fellow may have something. His ideas are unconventional and I understand he has been under psychiatric care in the past. But, for Anya's sake, I can't ignore any opportunity to communicate with Tom. It would be nice... to talk to Tom."  
  
My father's voice drifts off in this log and soon I hear only a hiss, as if he had forgotten he had been recording a log in the first place. I forward the logs to the next one.  
  
"Begin log. Lately, Anya has taken to ignoring me completely. She seems to huddle under her own hurt, not bothering to tell me what the matter is. I would ask, but what's the use? I'm sure whatever is bothering has to do with Tom; hell, everything has to do with Tom these days. I tell Anya about the latest developments and she regards me in icy blue silence. I don't know how to reach her or convince her that I'm doing all that I can. The other day, she told me that I couldn't possibly know what she, as a mother, was going through. I had no answer, but I felt resentful; why does everyone thinks I have forgotten Tom? I haven't. Not for a single moment. End log."  
  
"Begin log. I was in Tom's room today. I still think of it as Tom's room even though he hasn't slept there for years. Isobel found me looking through Tom's things and she asked me what I was doing. I told her I was thinking about Tom and she said, `You think he's alive?' and I hated that she articulated my worst fears. I held Isobel's hand tightly until she pulled away. I told Isobel that I believed Tom was coming home and she looked at me, somewhat sadly, I think. `I don't want to hope, Dad,' she said. `It hurts too much.' I asked Isobel if she missed Tom and she didn't answer me right away. Like me, she lacked the right words to express herself.   
  
`I miss him,' she admitted finally. `But Tom, he's not... he's not reliable, Dad. He does what he wants. Maybe he was never on Voyager. Maybe he's here and always has been. Isn't that a possibility?' Isobel's right. Tom is erratic. During his time at the Academy, there were periods of time when we had no idea where Tom had disappeared to and I remember Anya pacing the length of the living room, worrying over a son who could not even give us the courtesy of a note. This time though, I know that Tom isn't ignoring us.   
  
`Tom is on Voyager. I know that for a fact,' I told Isobel and she shrugged. 'Maybe you're right,' she said. `But it's less painful to think that he's hiding from us than the possibility that he might not be... alive.' I told Isobel, very firmly, that Tom was alive and was coming home. `I hope you're right,' she said. God, I hope I'm right too. End log."  
  
A log from the next day indicates that this is the day we made contact with Starfleet Headquarters.  
  
"Begin log. I heard Kathryn's voice and for a moment, I experienced a sense of surrealism, of excitement, of genuine relief. Kathryn sounded the same, even with a bit of an echo over the communication channel and some fuzziness, but that was Kathryn Janeway. I asked her how she was and she replied, `Very well. They're an exemplary crew - your son included.' The tone of her voice made me wonder what stories Tom had told Voyager about me. Rather a frightening thought that my reputation could be spread into the furthest reaches of the Delta Quadrant. And so I said the first thing that came to my mind: 'Tell him... tell him I miss him. And I'm proud of him.'   
  
Kathryn answered, much to my disappointment; I would have liked to have heard Tom's voice, but she said, 'He heard you, Admiral.' A few seconds and a couple words more, and that was the end of the communication but I told Tom, right? Maybe too little, too late, but some things, you shouldn't wait for. And I'd waited six years. When he gets home, we're going to talk, just the two of us. I don't think we will be ever at ease with each other; there is too much tension and no amount of talking will ever heal the wounds. But an effort, that's what I'm looking for. An effort from me, an effort from him, and maybe, we can begin to understand each other. Computer, end log."  
  
I stop the logs there; enough of my father's inner angst for now. Reacquainting yourself with the dead, at the very least, is unnerving.  
  
****  
  
What bothers me most is the "why." The simplest explanation is most often the correct one; in that case, I'd like to think that we've stepped through the looking glass. On a whim, I had Harry and Seven double-check the temporal sensor logs, a move that earned me a raised eyebrow from the former drone, but surprisingly, no comment. And they both responded to my request respectfully, but with a bit of sadness, that no, this was not a mirror universe and yes, we had arrived in the same Alpha Quadrant we had left behind.  
  
"I could double-check navigational sensors to make sure those aren't malfunctioning," Harry offered helpfully. I shook my head.  
  
"Thank you, Harry, but not necessary," I told him. "I- I wanted to be sure."  
  
"Of course," Harry said. Both he and Seven wore similar expressions; I know they both thought that I had finally lost all of my senses.  
  
It would be ironic, wouldn't it? The Hirogen, Krenim, Borg, and Kazon hadn't managed to drive me crazy, but a few conversations with Starfleet pushed me right over the precipice. I suppose I can expect to spend the rest of my days in an institution, picking daisies when they let me out for air and babbling incoherently about Starfleet conspiracies.   
  
After the court martial, of course.  
  
My last conversation with McArthur makes it very clear that I'm treading water; I'm tiring and there is no indication that anyone, including McArthur, will extend me a lifeline before the waves close over my head.  
  
I press my hand against my forehead.  
  
"Captain?" Tuvok is right behind me, his voice low, but concerned. He puts his hand on my shoulder and I turn to face him.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You are not well."  
  
"It's a headache. Nothing serious."  
  
"You have been under considerable strain. Maybe you should rest?"  
  
I look at my friend gratefully. His suggestion is the best I've heard in days.  
  
"Good idea," I answer. "I will. You have the bridge, Commander."  
  
I take one last look around and offer up a smile in an effort to put a happy face on our current situation. But I know that no one is fooled.   
  
"Are you all right?" Harry asks sotto voce as I pass him. "Captain?"  
  
"I'll be in the Messhall if you need me," I answer.   
  
"Right."  
  
You never think about the kilometers of gray carpet on Voyager until you can't lift your head to look at anything else but the floor. The carpets are still clean, due to Chakotay's diligence while I was traipsing around on the Borg cube.  
  
God, of all the stupid things I've done...  
  
That particular mission - someone must have been looking out for me, since I'm now staring at clean carpets and not the metal grid flooring of the Borg cube.  
  
The Messhall is sparsely populated when I get there and Neelix stands behind his counter, reading a PADD.  
  
"Coffee," I tell him without preamble.  
  
"Captain!" Neelix says energetically. "How are you?"  
  
I grunt at him, a response Neelix ignores. He pours out the coffee, and hands me the steaming mug.   
  
"Is everything all right?" Neelix asks; he follows me to a table at the furthest corner of the Messhall. I sit down, cup my hands around the mug, and bite my lip.  
  
"You're the third person to ask me that in the last ten minutes."  
  
"There must be a reason for that, right?" Neelix asks reasonably.  
  
"I'd be lying if I told you that everything was going according to plan," I tell him.  
  
"There has been talk," Neelix says.   
  
"Of course," I say. "I should never count the Voyager rumor mill out."  
  
"It might help if you talk to the crew."  
  
"I will, when I know what's going on."  
  
"They are worried about the former Maquis."  
  
"I am too."  
  
"We heard stories about Alonius Prime and how Chakotay decided not to come back with us," Neelix says. "The crew respects the Commander; they are concerned."  
  
"I know, Neelix."  
  
"And Lieutenant Torres? Is she all right?"  
  
"According to the Doctor, she's on the road to recovery."  
  
I look down into my coffee and note my own fuzzy features reflecting back from the dark liquid. Neelix leans forward.  
  
"The crew is worried about you, Captain," Neelix says. "They - they care about you and they know... they know when something is wrong."  
  
"Neelix, I appreciate your concern-"  
  
"You need to talk to the crew. Just tell them what's going on. They are all excited about being home and most of them are making reunion plans. I know you don't want to temper that enthusiasm, but please, they need to know."  
  
I smile at Neelix. When we first met, I was angry with him for deceiving me and yet, in seven years he has become a trusted member of my crew, and the one person I can trust to give me a gentle analysis of my crew's psyche.   
  
"I've never thanked you," I tell him softly. "I- I appreciate everything you've done for me, for Voyager."  
  
"Captain-"  
  
"No, really. You made yourself indispensable in so many ways and I am grateful. No matter what, that much is true."  
  
Neelix, damn him, his eyes mist over and he reaches over and grabs my hand.  
  
"It has been an honor to serve with you," he tells me. "No matter what they say about you, I'm sure there is no finer captain in all of Starfleet."  
  
"I'll take what I can," I tell him. "But will you be absolutely candid with me?"  
  
"What do you want to know?"  
  
"I want to know if I took too many risks. Did I endanger the crew more than necessary? Did I give orders which were contrary to our mission?"  
  
Neelix settles back in his chair.  
  
"You did what needed to be done," he says. "The circumstances, they dictated unusual procedures. You couldn't follow the rule book."  
  
"Chakotay would have said the same. What do you think?"  
  
Neelix considers carefully. Today he is wearing his blue suit with the gold trim; a blue and   
white striped shirt is visible in the V of his coat. From the mottled skin of his neck and face to the golden tufts of hair, artfully arranged in Talaxian fashion circa seven years ago, he cuts a comical appearance. Yet, despite this clownish appearance of his, Neelix's expression is completely serious and contemplative. I feel a sudden rush of emotion for this man who joined my crew and quickly earned our trust and loyalty; I'm also infinitely glad that he choose to remain with us.  
  
"Be honest," I urge. "I need to know."  
  
"I think there were certain circumstances when you might have done well to heed Commander Chakotay," Neelix says carefully.  
  
"You're referring to the Equinox?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And to Seven?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
I sigh. "I didn't have any choice," I tell him.  
  
"You believed you didn't have a choice," Neelix says gently. "I think you wanted an alliance with the Borg to succeed so you would have something to your credit when you returned home. There's nothing wrong with that, Captain. But when you forcibly detained Seven of Nine against her wishes, now that, that's where you went wrong."  
  
"You don't spare feelings, do you, Neelix?"  
  
"You asked for candid talk."  
  
"So I did. What else, then?"  
  
"You want me to come up with more examples?"  
  
I leaned forward.   
  
"How about the mission to infiltrate the Borg cube? Was that a situation when I should have listened to Chakotay?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
I lean back in my chair.  
  
"So you agree with all of... them?"  
  
"I don't understand who this `them' you're referring to is," Neelix says frankly. "But Captain, do you have regrets?"  
  
"I am apparently suffering from an incurable case of guilt," I try to laugh it off but Neelix glances at me, concern obvious in his wide eyes. "All right, it's true. I do have regrets and guilt is something I'm not very good at. I'd like to not feel this terrible about the way things have turned out."  
  
"Can I ask you a question? Candidly?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"If you hadn't done some of those things you are concerned about, what would you have done instead?"  
  
"I don't know," I confess. "I did whatever it took to get my crew home. Getting home, that was what was important nothing else. Sure, I could have settled us all on some uninhabited class-M planet, the first one that came along. That would have been the easy way out, wouldn't it?"  
  
"Yes," Neelix nods.   
  
"I made a commitment to my crew, Neelix," I tell him seriously. "I didn't take the easy way out and I made mistakes. I was wrong; I admit that. I- I guess I just didn't expect to feel this way about it all."  
  
"And you have other concerns? About the Maquis?"  
  
"Especially the Maquis. I'm not optimistic."  
  
"You think the Commander and the others will be on that planet indefinitely?"  
  
"Who knows?" I push my chair back in a momentary fit of restlessness. "Chakotay certainly has no wish to leave. He's with his friends now and he wants to remain with them. You know, Neelix, you serve with people for a certain amount of time and you think you know them. God, it hurts when you find out the truth."  
  
"Are you sure Chakotay really wants to stay?"  
  
"I asked him so many times to come with me. I was tired of hearing the question myself, but I had to make sure."  
  
"If Commander Chakotay is staying behind, there is a reason for it," Neelix lowers his eyes, so that he is no longer looking at me directly. "The Commander cares about you, Captain; he wouldn't abandon you. Not now."  
  
I bite down on my lip, trying to swallow the lump growing in my throat.   
  
"I hope you're right," I tell the Talaxian.   
  
"Captain," Neelix says gently. "Don't dwell on those things which hurt you. You cannot change the past, so you must accept it; the consequences you face now are not of your making. As you said, we could be living on a class-M planet in the Delta Quadrant now. It's to your credit that that is not the situation."  
  
I get up from my chair as Neelix takes my empty cup. I pause to look at him.  
  
"Thank you," I tell him. "I appreciate the conversation."  
  
"And Captain?" Neelix places a gentle, but restraining hand on my forearm. "You can't be all things to all people."  
  
I nod, "So I'm learning."  
  
The walk back to the Bridge seems interminable and in some ways, disappointing. At one point, I stop, and lean back against the curved wall of the corridor. I note the fluorescent lights lining the tops of the corridors and the thin, illuminated lighting strips running along the bottom of the walls.   
  
And that damn gray carpet.  
  
Seven years is a long time to walk on gray carpet.  
  
When we get back, I'm going to make a recommendation to the starship interior design: no more grays and browns. Really.  
  
But I know it's not the colors of Voyager which are irking me at this moment. Rather, it's a sudden realization, a truth undeniable that has suddenly become clear to me.  
  
I never thought I'd get tired of Starfleet.   
  
Funny how things change.  
  
~ end part X ~  
  
****  
  
The listening session continues. Admiral Paris speaks, and I note with amazement, that my father's voice is curiously monotone and sleep inducing.   
  
This time, I lay on the sofa, covered with a soft, blue blanket, while I listen.  
  
"Begin log. I invited Reginald Barclay for dinner tonight. He stopped by my office around fifteen hundred to confirm that I had indeed invited him. `I- I wanted to make sure- sure that you had meant - meant to invite me,' Barclay said. He stood in front of my desk, playing with his hands and shifting his weight from foot to foot. A gentle flush of red colored his cheeks and I felt the urge to stand up and give him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. But of course, that kind of behavior is inappropriate, so instead, I remained seated and confirmed the invitation. `It is so - so nice of you and, and Mrs. Paris,' Barclay said. `Thank you.' I told him that the dinner invitation was the least we could do for him since his project had made it possible for us to communicate with Voyager. Barclay was punctual, not that I would have expected otherwise. I introduced him to Anya and she was warm and gracious. Dinner was rather a stilted affair, as Barclay is not a skilled conversationalist and Anya and I had long fallen out of the habit of speaking with each other. Anya pressed him for information about Voyager but Barclay couldn't share much more than we already knew. I could tell Anya was disappointed, but she continued to entertain, smiling her patented artificial smile, her teeth clenched tightly together. I'm really trying, I am, but it gets harder everyday. End log."  
  
The next few logs are boringly Starfleet. Promotions, demotions, a few comments about the Dominion War and some stray notes about a peace treaty or two.  
  
"Begin log. Julia came today with Linsey; John is out of town, so Julia was feeling the strain of being alone. Linsey demonstrated her temper for us today and Julia sent her to her room. In many ways, she reminds me of Tom when he was her age. And speaking of Tom, I sat down the other night to try to remember everything about him. We have some old holoimages of him, but most are from his Academy days. I can only imagine what he looks like now. What amazes me though, is aside from the three major incidents - expulsion from the Academy, Caldik Prime and New Zealand - I can't remember anything else about Tom. I know there were good times, times when we got along, but I'm at a loss. I wish I could remember."  
  
Again, my father drones on and on about his adorable little granddaughter. I get the feeling though, that my daughter's child is less than angelic and not entirely deserving of such blind adoration.  
  
"Begin log. Linsey broke one of Anya's vases today and Anya didn't say a word. She just scooped up the pieces, with a warning to Linsey not to come closer. I watched from the doorway and a second later, Julia came by to see the damage. `I'm sorry, Mom, really,' Julia said. Anya shrugged. `Don't worry about it,' Anya said. `It's just a vase. I can replicate another one.' Julia grabbed Linsey and lectured the little girl in a voice that made me cringe. Later, I asked Anya about it. `Where did Julia learn that?' I asked. Anya looked at me in surprise. `From you,' she said. `You always talked to Tom like that.' That night, we slept with our backs to each other. End log."  
  
I sit up then, feeling a bit sick. I get up and replicate some tomato soup. I think about turning on the television as I eat, but then that reminds me of B'Elanna, who mandated no television during dinner.   
  
"When that thing is on, you don't talk to me," B'Elanna said. "I refuse to play second fiddle to one of your cartoon characters."  
  
"But B'Elanna-"  
  
"Please," she held up a hand. "We get little enough time together as it is; I don't want our time together to be marred by that thing."  
  
So the television stays off.  
  
B'Elanna's got me well trained.  
  
I wonder if she knows that.  
  
I finish up the soup and resume my place on the sofa.  
  
"Computer, resume Admiral Paris' logs at the last mark," I command. The computer obliges.  
  
"Begin log. We're getting messages from Tom on a monthly basis now. They are short, rather curt messages. He doesn't tell us much, which disappoints Anya greatly. She is the one who composes the messages back; apparently, I am not worthy of writing to my son. Her messages are a barrage of questions, most of them involving his eating habits. Tom never answers her questions directly, so we assume he is well, healthy, and eating enough. End log."  
  
"Begin log. We got a long letter from Tom today. The stardate indicated that he wrote this a while ago. He began it simply saying, `Mom, Dad, I had to borrow the space to send this from B'Elanna Torres, so I hope you understand.' The letter went on about a demotion to ensign he received. Anya and I both listened to Tom's story and in a few places, his voice actually cracked. Anya bit her lip and I didn't say anything. When the log was over, Anya got up and left the room, but I stayed there and played the letter again. And again. Finally, Anya came back.   
  
`What is the matter with you?' she asked. `Are you just looking for another reason to be disappointed in your son?' She didn't give me a chance to respond because we heard Linsey crying in the next room and Anya went to check on her. I sat back in my chair, contemplating Anya's question. To be honest, I don't know why I listened to Tom's letter so many times. I think, in retrospect, I just wanted to hear the sound of his voice. End log."  
  
"Begin personal log. I saw Julia out in the garden today, apparently cutting flowers for an arrangement. We're having a party tonight and Anya's all aflutter with the preparations. Everything needs to be perfect. So in an effort to escape my wife, I went out into the garden. It was a nice day, warm, with a slight breeze and the sky was a faded shade of blue. `Can I help?' I asked and Julia looked at me with obvious surprise.   
  
`I'm all set here, Dad,' she said. `But thanks for asking.' She pointed at the basket of flowers at her feet. `I just need to get these done before Linsey wakes up,' she said. `Really, that child runs me ragged.' I nodded in a manner I hoped was sympathetic. `It will pass,' I said. `I remember you and Tom, you had the devil in you.' Julia looked at me. `You never talk about Tom,' she said. I shrugged. `What's there to say?' I asked. Julia laughed then and picked up her basket. `A lot,' she said. 'You could say a lot, but you don't. You never have. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe it wasn't the devil in us, maybe we just wanted to talk to you.' I grabbed Julia's arm. `Was - was I a good father, Julia?' I asked.   
  
Julia considered and she looked off into the distance, looking so serious, that I was afraid of her answer. `You had a career, Dad,' she said. `Starfleet needed you. We were proud, you know, all of us. Isobel, Tom and I, we were proud that you were so important, but sometimes we needed a father.' I nodded. `I'm sorry, Julia,' I said. But she shook her head. `Doesn't matter now,' she said. 'Excuse me. I've got to check on Linsey. Make sure she's not getting into more trouble.'   
  
She handed me the basket and went inside. I took the basket in and gave it to Anya. Anya started to arrange the flowers with her usual artistic flair. I stayed and after a moment, Anya asked, `Do you want something, Owen?' And I swallowed hard, because for the first time in years, I lacked sufficient courage. I said quietly, `I want to know if there was a time when you, you needed me and I wasn't there.' Anya dropped the flowers, but then got to her knees to pick them up. `Yes,' she said finally. And she refused to say more. End log."  
  
The next few logs revert to the standard what "Admiral Paris did at work" format. Once again, there are boring, excruciatingly detailed notes about a peace treaty that suddenly fell through.   
  
Hardly interesting, considering I'd never heard of the world before, but apparently, it was a matter of great importance to my father.  
  
In a fit of impatience, I fast-forward to the last logs my father recorded.  
  
"Begin personal log. I talked to Rodney today. He said Voyager is on its way. I asked about the Maquis and Rodney said that no conclusion had been reached. I noted something needed to be done and Rodney agreed with me. `There are careers at stake here,' I told him and Rodney nodded. `I know, Owen,' he said. `Don't think I haven't thought about it.' I tried to remember what little I could about Chakotay and could come up only with a faint impression of a calm, utterly expressionless man who spoke in low tones. Not once during those negotiations did he raise his voice. At the time, I was livid to be sitting across the table from someone who had once worn a Starfleet uniform. I don't understand how you could turn your back on the great institution that is Starfleet.   
  
I later learned that Michael Eddington, of all people, and Ro Laren, both former officers also, had also been involved behind the scenes. It made me furious to know this. At least Chakotay had resigned his commission prior to joining the Maquis, but Eddington? Eddington was still one of us. I suppose when Voyager disappeared and Ro Laren vanished, I let myself get complacent. Who was there to tell the story of what happened? After all, Eddington's been dead for years; went down in a blaze after being hunted for years by Captain Sisko, God rest his soul. They martyred him, you know. The Maquis still speak the name of Eddington with whispered reverence and I don't understand. I never did. End log."  
  
"Begin personal log. This peace treaty is going to be the death of me. At least the negotiations keep me away from the house. Anya started cleaning. Tom's coming home, so everything must be spotless. She even went into his room and started putting things into order. I highly doubt that Tom will return home. I just hope he'll hear me out when we finally meet face to face. End log."  
  
"Begin personal log. I talked to McArthur today and recommended that Voyager dock at Starbase 87. Rodney didn't like the idea. `You know that particular starbase is a disaster, don't you?' Rodney asked. `I don't think that's the kind of welcome we should give to Voyager.' I listened to Rodney's protestations and then cut him off as firmly as I could. `Don't argue,' I told him. `I have a plan.' Rodney didn't look happy. `I don't like the tone of your voice, Owen.' I tried to reassure him, but Rodney still looked uneasy.   
  
Finally, I said, `I need to settle the Maquis question. Sending Chakotay to Alonius Prime where he still can talk, no, that's not going to work. Not this time.' Rodney argued with me. He said that it was very possible Chakotay did not remember me; after all, Chakotay had ample time to say something during the datastreams sent back to Earth, yet he never did. `That doesn't meant he won't say something now,' I argued back. In the end, McArthur agreed with me. Voyager would dock at Starbase 87 and he would stall until I arrived. And then, well... end log."  
  
"Begin personal log. Left today for Starbase 87. I didn't say good-bye to Anya. I doubt she'd even notice my absence. I suppose it's better this way. I should feel guilty, but I don't. Besides, it's better that Anya doesn't know what I've planned. Hell, I don't even know if I want to know, but I've got to do something. I've been talking to the others and we all feel a sense of trepidation. Rodney is very nervous. He doesn't like it at all, but he agrees that something must be done. `Send them to Alonius where they can all rot if you'd like,' Rodney said. I nodded. `That's the back-up plan," I said. `Someone proposed a resurgence of the Ghasa virus.' Rodney looked at me with disgust obvious on his face. `I can't believe you'd actually do it,' he said. I laughed then, more out of hysteria and stress than anything else. `I know,' I answered. `I can't believe I'd do it either.' End log."  
  
"Begin personal log. I saw Captain Janeway today. She looked the same, maybe a bit thinner than I remember, but she certainly carried herself with more height and authority. Her new confidence fits her well and I'm pleased with the change I see in her. We talked for a long time and she told me about Tom. I enjoyed hearing about my son in glowing terms and I'm eager to see him as soon as possible. Of course, there are those damn peace treaty negotiations making such a meeting next to impossible to arrange and of course, the question of what to do with the Maquis needs to be decided.   
  
But the situation is now infinitely more complicated. I found out from Kathryn that Tom had married B'Elanna Torres - the woman who had given up her allocated space in the datastream so he could tell us about his demotion. For the first time, I felt guilt about what I had planned. Rodney stopped by that night and urged me to change my mind. `There's always the Ghasa virus,' he said. `Send them all to Alonius Prime, conveniently forget a medical supply shipment, and they all die. It's simple and a lot less messy than this.' And I considered his words carefully.   
  
Once begun, I couldn't turn back. `Let me think about it,' I answered. Rodney looked at me seriously. `You'll ruin your career,' he warned. `If you do this, it will be a lot worse than trading with a few terrorists. This is murder, Owen. Think about it.' He got up and left. I couldn't sleep, thinking about Tom, B'Elanna Torres, and Kathryn's plea to me to help the Maquis. The idea of a relationship with Tom means a lot to me, but I don't know if I can turn back now. I knew even before I left home that I had already lost everything. Or maybe I lost it all when I sat across from Chakotay all those years ago. I don't know. End log."  
  
"Begin personal log. It bothers me that Tom never told me about his marriage. Granted, Kathryn said it happened very suddenly, but during all of our communications, he never even mentioned B'Elanna Torres, save the one time. I didn't believe things were so bad between us that he could not even mention his relationship. I haven't said anything to Anya about B'Elanna Torres. She may have the same difficulty I have in accepting a Maquis as a daughter-in-law. Or maybe, just to spite me, she will welcome B'Elanna with open arms. I'm trying, really I am, but I cannot bring myself to accept my son's choice. So maybe Tom was right not to tell me. I'm glad I know now. It makes what is to come easier. End log."  
  
"Begin log. Tom was on the station today, but because I was in those damned meetings all day, I didn't get a chance to see him. I'm tired of these logs, by the way. Tired of recording them, tired of listening to my own voice. Anyway, Tom was on the station today, and he stopped by the interrogation room. Apparently he made a racket trying to see this B'Elanna Torres. Security dragged Tom out and escorted him to Voyager. According to the security detail, at one point, Tom turned to them and said, `I want her back in one piece. If you even touch her...' Tom didn't finish his statement, but Security correctly logged the it as a threat. So add another black mark to my son's record. End log."   
  
"Begin log. I've made a decision. Maybe this is where it ends. I haven't said anything to Rodney yet, but he did send me a brief message this morning. The plan is on, evacuate by 1400. That doesn't give me much time. Damn. I've been trying to figure out these encryption logarithms for the last hour now. I'd ask for help, but I don't want to tip my hand. End log."  
  
"Begin log. Not much time now. Rodney has already left the station. He told me to hurry. I've finally figured out to reroute the release order. The last thing I want is for suspicion to fall on Rodney for anything in this mess. And in my own selfish way, I don't want any of this to be traced back to me. I don't want Tom to hate me anymore than he already does. I guess it's too late for that. End log."  
  
"Begin personal log. Seems ironic to record this just an hour or so before death. It's not every man's luxury to plan for his death, so I feel lucky, Tom, very lucky. To be able to pick the time and the circumstances, that is indeed a luxury. I want you to know that Chakotay, B'Elanna Torres and the others should be safe. I've ordered their evacuation and I hope they made it off the station.   
  
It's too late for me, Tom. I've already started the process that will destroy this starbase. I know there's a lot you don't understand. I know you're probably bewildered. Hell, I'm confused myself. I suppose you want to know what happened when I sat down to negotiate with the Maquis. Well, I was in it for myself. For the first time in my life, I saw an opportunity, which would benefit me and not Starfleet, so I took the chance when asked. All I wanted was the land. Rich soil plus a nice vein of latinum running through the rocks just below the surface. You're surprised, aren't you?   
  
Money doesn't motivate us, or so the Federation likes to think. Starfleet compensates me well, Tom, but you can always be richer. So when I was given the chance to own this property, I couldn't pass it up. So we made the deal. I didn't set out to renege on the offer, but I justified the breaking of the contract by the simple fact that these were terrorists, plain and simple.   
  
They never said a word because we hunted them down, day and night, but everyday, those of us involved in the scheme were terrified that one of them would speak and maybe, Starfleet would take them seriously. But it never happened. Chakotay was on Voyager, seventy thousand light years away, and who knows what happened to Ro Laren? I believed that the truth would never surface and I could contemplate the lines of latinum to my heart's delight.   
  
Congratulations, Tom, you now own some land on Dorvan IV. It wasn't practical to live there in the past because of the Dominion War and tensions in the DMZ, but it might be all right now. If I ever had a regret in my life, it's that I made a promise and didn't keep it. And I'm not talking about the Maquis; my opinion of them has never changed. I'm talking about you, Julia, Isobel, even your mother.   
  
I should have been there, but I wasn't. I didn't think at the time, and I regret so much. So, I hope you understand, Tom. I don't have much time. I did save your wife for you, so maybe that makes up for the past when I wasn't the father you needed and wanted. And there's the land - that's yours to split evenly with Isobel and Julia. Tom, I wish nothing but the best for you and B'Elanna. Goodbye. End log."  
  
~ end part XI ~  
  
****  
  
I've lost track of time.   
  
Morning or night, I have no idea.   
  
I don't even know what day it is.  
  
I don't think it matters.  
  
I've been walking for hours. Or maybe seconds, or minutes, or days - I have no idea. I pass crewmembers in the corridors and their names escape me. I mumble a hello and pass them, without waiting to see if they respond.  
  
When I accepted my first commission, it surprised me how easily you could lose a sense of time in space. You see only the dark coldness of space and that - that never changes.  
  
I end up in my quarters because roaming the corridors endlessly has started to get to me. I'm sure the crew thinks I'm crazy; hell, even I'm inclined to agree with them.  
  
The first time I entered these quarters over seven years ago, Mark was with me. He looked around pensively. He stood like he does when he's nervous - hands jammed into pockets, shoulders slightly hunched.   
  
"Nice," he said. "Bigger than your quarters on the Al-Batani."  
  
"I'm the captain now, Mark," I reminded him. I opened some dresser drawers and peered into the closet. "The position does have a perk or two."  
  
"So do I call you `sir' now?" he asked. He peered out of the window. "Nice view of the space dock you've got there, Kathryn."  
  
"I prefer `ma'am,'" I replied. "And the view will change."  
  
"Well," Mark said. "For what it's worth, I'm proud of you."  
  
"Thank you," I said. I peeked into the bathroom, which was amazingly large for a starship. I even turned on the sonic shower, putting my hand beneath it to feel the pressure. "This is good, really good."  
  
"Who decorates these quarters anyway?" Mark said. I went back out into the living area and saw him staring at a rather dismal picture - gray canvas streaked with maroon.   
  
"Starfleet has an entire department responsible for decorating starships."  
  
"Functional design, but certainly not attractive."  
  
"Well, I do intend to bring some of my own things to brighten the place up."  
  
"Hmmm," Mark smiled. "Well, I do have something for you. Something to make it a little more homey."  
  
I looked at him in surprise.  
  
"You didn't have to do anything," I told him.  
  
"I wanted to," he said. "Look over there."  
  
Mark pointed to a side-table, located to the left of the sofa.   
  
"A tea set?" I asked. "Mark, it's lovely."  
  
I picked up the silver pot and then examined each of the matching cups in turn. I felt Mark watching me the whole time.  
  
"I know how you are about your coffee," he said. "And I thought this might make things a little more... elegant?"  
  
"It's lovely," I repeated. "And you're sweet. How did you get this in here? I couldn't come onboard until a couple hours ago."  
  
Mark smiled.   
  
"It pays to make friends with the cleaning crew," he said. I crossed over to him and put my arms around his neck.  
  
"Thank you," I said. "For everything. And especially, thank you for agreeing to take care of Molly."  
  
"Not a problem," he said. "She's a good dog."  
  
"I appreciate it."  
  
A moment of silence passed, and then Mark cleared his throat.   
  
"We need to talk, Kathryn, when you get back."  
  
"I know," I answered. "Be patient, all right? It's just for a few weeks. Maybe six months, at the most."  
  
Mark sighed and looked around the quarters once more, taking in the mostly gray and maroon decor with a jaded eye. I put my hand on his forearm.  
  
"It won't be so bad," I told him.   
  
"Right," he said in the matter-of-fact tone that meant he did not agree with me, but did not feel like arguing the point.  
  
I held his hand tightly as we continued to look around. Mark tried out the replicator and it produced a decent cup of coffee.   
  
"Voila. I suppose you'll be all right now," Mark said. "Coffee, that's all you've ever needed, isn't it?"  
  
I looked at him for a long time, contemplating his craggy, aquiline features and dark eyes I loved so much.  
  
"Coffee makes most things better," I told him.   
  
"Not the answer I was hoping for, but I'll take it."  
  
"Well, you shouldn't make statements like that then," I said crabbily.  
  
"Right."  
  
Mark looked so crestfallen that I felt terrible for snapping at him.  
  
"We'll have that talk when I get back," I said softly.  
  
Mark nodded.  
  
"When you come back," he said. "God, I am going to miss you."  
  
"Me too," I said with a trace of insincerity, only because I was dreading the talk we would have on my return. The thought of marriage - however much I loved him - seemed to be a step towards restricting my freedom. We would be equals in everything, bound together, and forced to take the other into consideration for every decision. In truth, I was secretly glad for the time away to think about what I truly wanted, but of course, I couldn't tell Mark that I was having second thoughts about spending the rest of my life with him.   
  
"Truly," he said. "Come back soon."  
  
During our first weeks in the Delta Quadrant, I found that I missed Mark with a frightening intensity. I would wake up at night, missing his presence next to me and it disturbed me greatly that I did not know what he was doing or how he was feeling. Did he miss me the way I missed him? Did he wonder if I was alive? Some nights, I would write him letters before going to sleep.   
  
The letters would be exactly the kind he hated - chatty, gossipy, a basic list of events that had gone on Voyager. I would have written deeper letters, the ones that revealed my most inner feelings, and I would have told him that if we had had that talk, I would have said yes. But I could never bring myself to spill my emotions into a data PADD, because that seemed like a lousy way to confess what I should verbalize. More importantly, I wanted to see his face when I told him. I wanted to be able to run my fingers over his cheek and down his jawbone as he held my hand in his.   
  
I dreamt of my reunion with Mark so many times until the day I found out he had gotten married. After reading that message, I spent most of that day philosophizing in the holodeck with daVinci when Chakotay showed up.  
  
"I was looking for you," he said. "Dinner?"  
  
A simple request uttered in a casual tone, but I looked at Chakotay differently that day. So I nodded, joined him in the mess hall. He told terrible jokes and I laughed so hard that tears ran down my cheeks. That night, I pretend that Chakotay had a sense of humor, for no other reason than to persuade myself that those tears weren't shed for Mark.  
  
Even when Chakotay and I moved past dinners and the occasional date on the holodeck, I still thought about Mark on occasion and I would find myself obsessing over an endless "what if" fantasy.  
  
I didn't realize that Chakotay knew I occasionally mused about the life I should have had with Mark, until one day Chakotay was lying in bed, watching me get dressed. He looked lazy, his hair rumpled, his torso exposed from waist up.   
  
"Good morning," I said. Chakotay grunted back.   
  
"Talkative today, aren't you?" I continued. I pressed my lips together as I applied lipstick.  
  
"Do you really want to talk?" Chakotay asked.  
  
"Before coffee? Not really, but go ahead."   
  
"I don't know if I should."  
  
"If you have something to say, say it," I said in exasperation. I hated it when Chakotay tossed out little hints but didn't follow up on them, for whatever reason.   
  
"You put up boundaries," Chakotay said. I looked at him in surprise.  
  
"What are you talking about?" I asked.  
  
"We've been... together," Chakotay began and then his voice trailed off. I sat down on a chair to lace up my boots. "You don't think about me outside of this bed, do you?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You don't think about me. You rely on me to be there when you need me, but it doesn't matter to   
you how I feel, does it?"  
  
"Don't be ridiculous."  
  
"Why do you ignore my advice?"  
  
"I don't. I listen."  
  
"You pretend my opinion counts. I don't know what hurts more: knowing you're going to ignore what I have to say or asking what I think and pretending it counts."  
  
"That's not true."  
  
"I suppose it's too much to ask how you really feel."  
  
"You know how I feel," I told him. "That's never been a secret."  
  
"You want to let me in on it?"  
  
"Chakotay, I don't have time for this."  
  
I stood up and took a quick look in the mirror. I noted that my cheeks were still slightly flushed and my eyes sparkled just a bit more than usual. I straightened my clothes, fluffed my hair lightly, and then turned to look back at Chakotay.  
  
"You're wrong," I told him. "I can't believe you'd even say such things."  
  
"You know it's true, Kathryn. Even when we returned from New Earth, you wouldn't talk to me about what happened between us there."  
  
"For heaven's sake," I said. "I need to be on the Bridge. We'll talk about this later."  
  
Chakotay shook his head.  
  
"No, we won't," he said. "We won't ever talk because you don't want to say certain things out-loud. You're afraid to."  
  
"Do you have an ancient warrior story about that?" I asked snidely. "Maybe you can come up with one between now and dinner."  
  
"This is why I should never try to have a meaningful conversation with you," Chakotay said. He got out of bed and grabbed his clothes. "You're an impossible woman. Sometimes, I don't even know if you're real."  
  
He stalked off into the bathroom and a few seconds later, I heard the hiss of the sonic shower.   
I sighed and left my quarters at a brisk pace.  
  
Now I barely recall the way Mark looked when he stood here in my quarters. I do remember Chakotay though and the way his features would soften when he looked across the table at me and I would shiver, knowing that the emotions on his face were not a trick of candlelight.  
  
I curl up on the sofa, pulling a shawl over my shoulders. I focus on the endless starscape outside my window, thinking how a nice walk out an airlock would surely cure all that ails me now - and forever.   
  
Chakotay was right. I'm a statue, a goddamned marble masterpiece. I can't risk emotion for I will crack, and I can't risk motion for surely I would fall and surrender to a passion greater than me.  
  
And maybe it wouldn't have been bad to say those three little words - just once.   
  
~ end part XI ~  
  
****  
  
I wake with a gasp.  
  
The logs, they're over. God, those logs...  
  
They sounded just like my father - overly formal, stilted, and occasionally vague. I marvel at the fact that he even recorded his thoughts for prosperity, knowing how incriminating this information could be.  
  
But then he never intended to return home from Starbase 87.  
  
My father's logs show me a piece of the father I've always wanted: the father who missed and loved me desperately. But then, there was also the cold, calculating ruthless Starfleet officer and that's what I'm having difficulty with.  
  
I hate to have such a schizophrenic view of my father.  
  
I'm hungry, so I replicate some oatmeal and peanut butter toast. I'm halfway through eating when   
the door chimes.  
  
"Come," I call.  
  
Harry walks in.  
  
"You doing okay?" he asks.  
  
"Now that I have food, yeah."  
  
"I tried to comm you a couple times. You didn't respond."  
  
"I was busy. Sorry."  
  
"Sure you're okay?" Harry grabs the chair opposite me and sits down. He raps his fingers gently on the table. "The Captain hasn't been on the Bridge in hours. Tuvok recommended she get some rest. I think she's wandering around the ship."  
  
"I see," I answer neutrally. At this moment, I don't care what Captain Janeway is doing. If she feels the need to take a look around a ship that won't be hers in a few days, by all means, she should go ahead. She's more sentimental about this ship than some mothers are about their children.  
  
"I thought I'd let you know we're only a couple hours away now," Harry says. "Everyone is getting more excited now. Even Seven received some letters from relatives." Harry's broad face lights up with a smile. "She is... unsure as to how to respond."  
  
"Is that a direct quote?"  
  
"Yes," Harry answers. "I don't suppose you would help her out?"  
  
"Why not you? It would be some good, quality bonding time with Seven. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"  
  
"Come on, Tom," Harry says. "Help her out, okay?"  
  
"Why not you?" I ask again.  
  
"Why not you?" he counters.  
  
"Because I don't feel like it."  
  
Harry relaxes back in his chair. His finger tapping gets on my nerves.  
  
"You're not okay, Tom," he says. "Stop lying to me, to yourself, to everyone around you."  
  
"I just need time alone."  
  
"I bet you didn't even tell B'Elanna. I bet you acted like everything was just fine. She probably doesn't have the first clue."  
  
"I told B'Elanna."  
  
Harry doesn't look convinced. He shrugs.  
  
"Have it your way," he says. "I'm just trying to help."  
  
"You don't believe me."  
  
"Of course not. You're a first class escapist, Tom. Even before you commit yourself to anything, you're looking for a way out. Just once and I really mean, just once, can't you be honest? With me, if no one else?"  
  
I look around my quarters, focusing on everything except for Harry. I can't deal with his concern and care right now for the pure fact that I don't believe he can help me; no one can help because no one else on the damn ship knows what I'm going through.  
  
I hate when people tell me they understand because damn it, they don't. They simply look at you with wide eyes, thin lipped expression, and they nod at you in a sympathetic manner. Somehow, you feel that they really aren't listening when you speak; you imagine that they are thinking about a dinner date or maybe what they plan to wear tomorrow. And then, they all cluck at you, pet you gently on the shoulder and say, "I'm sorry. I understand how you feel."  
  
Occasionally, my father would come into my room during the turbulent teen years. He would stand at the foot of the bed, stare down at me and in his most dignified voice, he would say, "Thomas, I understand what you're going through. If we discuss this, we can arrive at a solution together."   
  
Hell, I hated that. I never wanted to arrive anywhere; I was already where I wanted to be and not for a single minute did I believe my father could understand me or anything in my life. So when he came, I would roll onto my stomach and pull the covers over my head, hoping to block out the irritating sound of his voice. And invariably, my father would say, "Dammit! Would you just talk to me?" and I wouldn't respond; eventually, he would leave, and I would feel like I had won a small victory.  
  
I sigh and look back at Harry.   
  
"I've been listening to my father's logs," I tell him. "I- I don't know what to make of them."  
Because I feel the need to talk to someone, I quickly tell Harry about my father's activities.  
  
"I don't understand, Tom," he says.  
  
"I don't either," I tell him. "I've listened to some of the logs over again but even that doesn't help."  
  
"Why would your father do such a thing? The land he's talking about, why should that matter? It's not like it would be of any value to anyone who is not Cardassian."  
  
"Maybe he planned to sell it to the Cardassians," I say. "Maybe he wanted to auction it off to the Ferengi, I don't know."  
  
"There's got to be a mistake."  
  
I look up at Harry.  
  
"Yeah," I say very softly. "I wish I'd gotten the chance to talk to him. Really talk to him."  
  
Harry nods.  
  
"I thought you might feel that way," he says. "Regardless of anything else. Are you going to say something to the Captain?"  
  
"I haven't thought about it."  
  
"Seven's tests indicated that the explosion wasn't an accident. The Captain believes that Admiral McArthur is responsible."  
  
"Sounds like McArthur did everything to convince my father not to go through with it," I answer bitterly. "Wish he'd listen. I don't understand why my father thought he was at the point of no return. I don't get why he didn't pull back when he had second thoughts. It's beyond my comprehension."  
  
"Does he explain himself in the logs?"  
  
"Not very well."  
  
"So are you going to tell the Captain?"  
  
I look down at my hands.  
  
"I- I don't know," I answer. "I suppose if she asks..."  
  
"That's an easy one. She won't ask," Harry says. "You're off the hook. Another decision avoided."  
  
"Very funny, Harry. Nice of you to kick me when I'm down."  
  
"I'm not kicking you, Tom, at least not intentionally. I'm trying to figure out what's going on with you. Hell, I don't know why I even try."  
  
There's something in his tone that reminds of the way I used to speak to B'Elanna during my unrequited love phase in an attempt to get her to see me as more than an arrogant pig.  
  
"Because you're a good person, Harry," I tell him. "And I do appreciate it."  
  
Harry allows himself a tiny smile.  
  
"Glad to hear it," he says.  
  
I lean back in my chair, turning my body sideways, so I can see out of the windows.  
  
"It wasn't all bad, Harry. I also learned some things about my family from Dad's logs," I say. "I can't wait to meet Linsey, my sister Julia's daughter. She sounds like a handful, a bit like me."  
  
"That's what we need, another Tom Paris," Harry says with a laugh. "Mind if I get something from the replicator?"  
  
"Help yourself."  
  
A few seconds later, Harry returns with a cup of coffee. He inhales deeply.  
  
"I missed this stuff," he says. "Back at the Academy, I swear, I had more coffee than blood running through me. Insane. Made me jittery all night, but I didn't want to try those drugs. You know which ones I'm talking about."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Harry's eyes narrow.  
  
"You tried those stimulants, didn't you?" he asks. "The ones that keep you awake all night?"  
  
"And into the next, yeah," I answer. I push my empty plate away. "Kept you wide-eyed and active, let me tell you."  
  
"Did you use them often?"  
  
"What is this?" I ask him. "Why are you interrogating me?"  
  
Harry shrugs.  
  
"I've never asked before and I don't know what kind of time we've got left."  
  
"You sound like San Francisco is the end of the road."  
  
"You don't think so?"  
  
"I told you already I don't know what to think. I certainly don't expect that San Francisco is where it's all going to end for us."  
  
"You're an optimist," Harry says.  
  
"Look who's talking," I lean forward. "Harry, I've got too many questions. I need to know why."  
  
"You know I'll help you."  
  
I shake my head.  
  
"No," I tell him.  
  
"Tom..."  
  
"Look," I say. "I appreciate what you're trying to do. I want to do this alone. I need to."  
  
Harry looks doubtful but after a moment, he nods his head.  
  
"Yeah," he says. "I get that."  
  
I gaze at my friend. I allow myself a smile, even if it doesn't seem to fit on my face right now.  
  
"Thanks," I tell him. "For everything."  
  
"Don't mention it."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
He leans back in his chair.  
  
"I don't have anywhere to be," he says. "And I checked the holodeck before I came down. It should be free. What do you say?"  
  
I look down at the PADD, which contains my father's last words, and back at Harry. Taking aim at some of the bad guys in the Captain Proton simulation seems like brilliant idea right now; if I can't shoot my father, disrespectful as that sounds, I might as well take this pent-up anger everyone insists I have and put it to good use.   
  
"Yeah," I say. "The holodeck, that sounds like a good idea."  
  
****  
  
I roll over in bed, and stare up at the ceiling in a moment of disorientation. Then I remember everything and a second later, I'm on my feet, heading into the bathroom. I dry heave a few times, but bile continues to burn in my esophagus. I slump to the floor, nearly banging my head on the toilet.  
  
I'm pathetic.  
  
Damn pathetic.  
  
For seven years, I stared down aliens and called their bluffs.  
  
Even took a few risks myself.  
  
Won most of the gambles I took.  
  
Thought I did a pretty good job with Voyager too.  
  
Now, one conversation with an admiral and I've reduced myself to a sniveling mess.  
  
Lovely.   
  
I draw my knees to my chest, hugging them close to me. I'm suddenly aware of the cold and wonder about the environmental controls. And then I remember that B'Elanna's not here to monitor to the systems and thinking about B'Elanna naturally leads me to thinking about Chakotay.  
  
Neelix said that Chakotay must have a plan; he wouldn't leave me.  
  
Neelix knows the crew better than anyone. Hurts me to admit it, but it's true, very true. He spent the time getting to know them; I just dished out orders, watched the crew follow my directives, and occasionally, one of them would question me. Most of the time though, out of a sense of propriety, I would stay in my quarters when not on duty, waiting for Chakotay to arrive on whatever pretense he had concocted for that day. Some nights he would show up with a duty roster and a formal, "Captain, I thought you would want to review my changes for this week  
  
In some ways, I enjoyed the subterfuge but I also resented the invisible barrier that kept me from socializing more informally with crew.  
  
Sometimes, I wanted to do more than lean towards Chakotay; I wanted to grab his hand right there in front of everyone. I wanted to brush my lips against his cheeks lightly the way B'Elanna does to Tom when she thinks no one is looking.   
  
If that's love... God, what am I saying? It must be, right? I don't even know. I hate that I don't know.  
  
When we spent time in the void, I allowed only Chakotay to visit. He would hand me the duty rosters, give a general state of the ship ("Everything is operating at peak efficiency, Captain.") and then he would gently massage my shoulders and back. He would tell me stories, and soon, I found myself looking forward together. In a way that made me uncomfortable and exited at the same time, I anticipated his arrival, sometimes with shaking hands and flushed cheeks.  
  
And other moments, when I felt our relationship growing too close, frighteningly close to the point where Mark and I had been, I would draw back. I relied heavily on my sense of guilt as a convenient excuse and Chakotay, hesitantly, would agree and withdraw.  
  
Once, I wandered the corridors of Voyager, keeping close to the walls, and ducking into storage rooms if I heard voices. That night, I saw Tom and B'Elanna. They were in front of his quarters and his hands rested on her hips lightly. I could barely make out their conversation, but it was something about breakfast plans and then B'Elanna broke away. A second later, Tom turned down the corridor and saw me there.  
  
"I thought I heard something," he said. "It's usually B'Elanna who suspects someone's around, but this time... it's good to see you, Captain."  
  
"Hello, Tom. I- I didn't mean to intrude."  
  
"You didn't," Tom said easily. "It's your ship."  
  
He laid special emphasis on the word `your' and I didn't particularly care to correct him; hell, at that moment, I didn't care much about anything but getting the crew home in one piece and these days, the possibilities of that seemed to be next to nothing.  
  
"Is- is everything all right?" Tom asked carefully. "We've been worried about you."  
  
"I need some time to think," I told him. "Everything is fine."  
  
"Would you tell us if the situation was otherwise?"   
  
"I've always been candid with the crew."  
  
"In your way, yes."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?" I leaned back against the wall, folding my arms against my chest. "I've never lied to any of you, Tom."  
  
"I didn't mean to imply that you did," Tom answered. "I think you tell us the truth the way you want to see it. But I suppose, you can say that of anyone. We all look at things from our own perspectives."  
  
"When did you get so philosophical?"   
  
In spite of myself, I was amused by Tom's comments. I did feel the sting of reproach underlying his words, but the sight of a pensive, serious Tom? Now that was a phenomenon rarely observed.  
"I've had a lot of time to think also," he said. "B'Elanna and I've been fighting."  
  
I blinked in surprise at his frankness; it wasn't like Tom to talk about his relationship to B'Elanna. I didn't even think he talked to B'Elanna about their relationship.  
  
"I wouldn't have guessed," I answered finally.  
  
"You've been in your quarters, with all due respect," Tom said. "Right now, we're okay, but I know we're due for an argument any time now. God, I hate it when we fight. It eats at my gut, you know? I'm always thinking of a million things I should have said. And then I think about how I can make it up to her. And it's odd, because no matter what the argument is about or who started it, I always think it's my fault. Even when she apologizes, I feel terrible, because I feel like I've failed her in some way. Sometimes, B'Elanna's got me so turned around, I don't know what to think."  
  
Then Tom bit his lip, looked at me and said softly, "But I don't suppose you know how that all goes?"  
  
I wanted to disagree with him, but I couldn't. After all, where do you start if you're already at the beginning? If Tom wanted to stand here and trade relationship tips, what could I say? The truth? And how exactly would that come out? Maybe something along the lines of: "I do understand what you're talking about, Tom. I don't know how to tell you this - hell, I'll just say it. Chakotay and I are sleeping together. We can't tell anyone because it's a breach of protocol, but yes, the rumors are true. And you must have noticed by now that Chakotay and I have a communication problem. At least that's what Chakotay thinks. He's always analyzing, reading too much into each situation. I know what the problem is and he's wrong. He likes to question my decisions and I don't like his solutions. The issue of command, it gets in the way. What do you think, Tom? How does that compare to your relationship with B'Elanna? Maybe we should trade notes."   
  
But of course, I couldn't say all of that. I simply looked at Tom, swallowed hard, and said with sincerity, "I hope you and B'Elanna work things out. It's not easy, I know- but I think you can do it."  
  
Not exactly a gung-ho speech there, but I couldn't rouse myself to the proper levels of enthusiasm when it came to B'Elanna and Tom. To me, they often acted like unruly children, fighting constantly because it was easier to trade insults than to confess to something real. Or maybe they didn't know how to be in love. And in that case, who was I to offer them any advice?  
  
Tom nodded, said his goodnight, and disappeared into his quarters.  
  
And because I didn't want to risk encountering anyone else, I headed back to mine. Once back in the privacy of my quarters, I poured myself a glass of Merlot, and sat down on the sofa. I thought about Tom and B'Elanna and the way Tom's eyes glazes over when he looks at B'Elanna.  
  
When Chakotay came that night, I pulled him into the bedroom and put my hand on his chest. He covered my fingers with his and for a long time, we just stood there. At some point, I leaned forward, resting my cheek against his chest, and he held me.  
  
"I'm here," he said very softly and that night, I felt safe from the blackness that threatened to engulf me.  
  
The memory makes me want Chakotay even more at this moment for nothing more than his ability to keep the demons far away from me. Even in those moments when I hated him for contradicting me, I knew he stood behind me, no matter what I did, ready to protect me from myself.  
  
Pathetic.  
  
Damn.  
  
Starfleet captains don't huddle on the floors of bathrooms, hugging their knees. They don't sit in dark rooms, brooding and ruminating over past foibles. Starfleet captains certainly don't allow for relationship issues to interfere with command.  
  
There should be a class on this kind of thing because I don't know what do other than sit here and sulk on the bathroom floor. Truth be told, I'd rather not be a captain for a while. Being womanly, even for a few seconds, would be nice change of pace.  
  
I would like to believe McArthur is responsible for my current state, but I'm gradually beginning to realize that Starfleet, in all of its schizophrenic glory, is only partially responsible for my current distress.  
  
If my crew could see me now, what would they say?  
  
~ end part XII ~  
  
****  
  
"What is it? Captain Proton?" I ask.  
  
"You'll see," Harry says. He punches in some codes while I shift from foot to foot behind him. I try to peer over his shoulder, but Harry's not having it; he shifts his body so I can't see   
what he's doing.  
  
"Don't hold me in suspense," I say.  
  
"Patience is a virtue, Tom," Harry says. "Good things come to those who wait."  
  
"You sound like a grandmother."  
  
"Seems to me you're coming back to normal. Same old carefree happy Tom Paris, eh?"  
  
"If you say so."  
  
"What are you doing?" Seven approaches us. She holds a PADD in her hand. "Ensign Kim, I was looking for you."  
  
Harry turns around guiltily.  
  
"Did we have a meeting, Seven?" he frowns. "I don't recall-"  
  
"No," she holds the PADD out. "I require your assistance in responding to this letter."  
  
Harry takes the PADD and scrolls through the content.   
  
"It is of a conciliatory nature," Seven continues. "However, I am uncertain how to respond. I believe a reply is appropriate in this case."  
  
"Depends," I say, thinking about some of the letters that I wrote to my father from New Zealand - letters that he never answered. "If you have something to say, that is. Or maybe, you don't, in which case, you don't write back. Whatever you want, Seven."  
  
Seven looks at Harry, ignoring me smoothly.  
  
"It's human nature, isn't it?" I ask. "Do what you want to do since you're going to do it anyway?"  
  
Harry stares at me.  
  
"What are you talking about?" he asks finally. "Seven needs advice, Tom, and you're not helping."  
  
"It's her decision," I say. "Whatever she chooses to do. I don't know why you can't see that."  
  
"I am unsure of how to draft a letter," Seven says. "I have never written a letter before. You offered your assistance earlier."  
  
"Of course," Harry says. He shoots me a look with the intention of reducing me to a shriveling pile of guilt at Seven's feet; hell, he's not getting me this way. Seven and her letter, damn, they can fend for themselves.  
  
"These individuals, Karin and Kristophe Hansen, have offered to meet me when we dock," Seven says. "Kristophe Hansen is my father's brother. My uncle."  
  
"So the letter says."  
  
"I must rehearse a speech."  
  
I laugh.  
  
"No speech necessary, Seven. Be yourself," I advise. "It's only family."  
  
"Tom," Harry says agitatedly. "Would you stop it?"  
  
"Look," I hold up a hand. "It's a letter, for God's sake. Just say or do something, but don't think about it."  
  
I punch in a code to open the holodeck and the doors slide open. Instead, Harry has programmed a tropical jungle, complete with lemurs swinging from tree branch to tree branch and in the distance, I can hear the roar of a river. Brightly colored florae dot the verdant shrubbery while vines twist around tree trunks. Humidity hangs in the air, sticky and oppressive. I look at Harry in surprise; he shrugs.  
  
"A rainforest?" I ask. "Of all things?"  
  
"It is an interesting environment," Seven observes. She glances around. I hear the howl of a wild animal and a second later, I'm aware of a snake hanging discreetly from a tree branch.  
  
"Harry!" I scream. I jump back, nearly knocking my friend over. Harry regains his balance.  
  
"Something wrong, Tom?" he asks innocently.  
  
"I thought gangsters, Harry. Captain Proton at the very least. Even the beach. But this? This is a rainforest. What are you thinking?"  
  
"Look at the detail," Harry grabs my arm.   
  
"I'm looking." I point to the snake whose tongue darts in and out of its straight-line of a mouth quickly. "I don't like this, Harry. God! You programmed a snake?"  
  
A second later, something small and furry runs across my boot. I jump, earning me a look of disdain from Seven of Nine.  
  
"There are mice in here? Good lord, Harry. What is this?" I exclaim.  
  
"I believe it is an authentic recreation of a rainforest," Seven says. She takes a few steps and then glances up at the canopy of leaves above us. "The temperature, however, is uncomfortable."  
  
"Sorry," Harry says. "Like you said, it's authentic. Do you like it, Tom?"  
  
"Are you crazy? What is - damn it, Harry, something bit me!"  
  
"You should be okay. I left out the poisonous species," Harry answers.  
  
I stare at him in surprise.  
  
"That was thoughtful," I retort as I rub the red welt on my ankle.  
  
"I programmed this a while back," Harry says pensively. "Before we even got back to the Alpha Quadrant... I've been wanting to show it to you for a while, Tom. I'm - I'm proud of it. I think it's one of the best programs I've done."  
  
Seven leans down to pluck a reddish-hued flower from a shrub. She holds it up, examining it - stamen, pistils and all.   
  
"What species is this? I am unfamiliar with this flower."  
  
"It is a Heliconia, commonly called lobster claws. See how the flower looks like a claw?" Harry leaves my side to talk to Seven. For a few minutes, they discuss this particular blossom in great detail. Seven seems satisfied and then she looks at me.  
  
"Lieutenant," she says. "Are you not interested?"  
  
"I was misled," I answer grumpily.   
  
"Fine, go," Harry says.   
  
"What possessed you?" I can't resist asking. "This isn't exactly the ideal vacation spot. You could have left the mosquitoes out."  
  
I slap at my arm and I'm irritated that Seven and Harry do not seem to be tasty prey for the insects of the rainforest.   
  
"Next time," Harry says.  
  
"Hell, even you think there won't be a next time. You choose this program for our last holodeck experience? Don't be ridiculous."  
  
"Come with me," Harry says. His tone is firm, effectively cutting off any other complaints I must have. "I'm sorry that there aren't any fast cars or shuttlecraft for you to race, but this is important to me."  
  
Properly chastened, I follow Harry and Seven.  
  
The undergrowth is thick and in some places, still damp with morning dew. Harry, wielding a machete, cuts us a path expertly; I'm truly impressed at my friend's skill. I would have never guessed that trail blazing was a hobby of Harry's.   
  
I step gingerly to avoid stepping on snakes, mice and other native fauna that Harry might have felt lent authenticity to the program. The trek is arduous since no path exists and the sounds of the jungle make me nervous.  
  
Finally, we emerge on the bank of a river. The water is murky but fast flowing. On the other side, I see more trees.  
  
"Well?" I question.  
  
Harry points to a smooth-faced boulder jutting out of the bank.   
  
"See that?" he asks.   
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I almost proposed to Libby there," he says. "`Almost' being the operative word. I actually lost my footing and fell in. I lost the ring."  
  
"That is unfortunate," Seven says.  
  
"I've been thinking a lot, Tom," Harry says. "You asked about Libby and I told you that I didn't expect anything. But the other day, I came here to sit on that rock and I realized that I don't want any regrets. I don't want to look back for the rest of my life and wonder what would have happened if for a single moment, I had kept my balance."   
  
"You did not propose again?" Seven asks.  
  
"No. The Voyager posting came up and I thought that I had plenty of time. Libby never knew what I had intended. I needed to save up for another ring. Of course, I didn't think it seven years would pass before I could ask the question. And now... well, I was certain of her then. Hell, I was certain of me too."  
  
I stare in fascination at the rock. I can almost see Harry and Libby standing there and Harry, in his enthusiasm, slipping on a wet spot and landing in the water. I imagine that he laughed nervously the way he does when he isn't sure what to do next. Maybe Libby extended her hand to help him out, maybe she jumped in after him or just maybe, she stood there and laughed. Harry doesn't seem inclined to fill in the blanks.   
  
"You should write the letter, Seven," Harry says firmly. "But not the way Tom suggests. Write with your heart and tell them everything. Answer the questions they ask. Don't wait for another opportunity; take this one now."  
  
This new philosophical Harry stuns me. In the past, I've always chided him on being wet behind the ears, but his present sincerity and serenity both reveal a side of Harry I've always ignored in favor of his more playful side.   
  
"I'll help you," Harry says. Seven looks relieved.  
  
"Harry?" I ask.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Why - why did you choose a rainforest?"   
  
Harry shrugs.  
  
"Like everything else," he says. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."  
  
He leads the way back through the forest. This time, our walk is much easier since we follow our original path. I think about making a joke about maps or even about programming nice trails into the scenario, but Harry doesn't seem inclined to humor at this moment.  
  
Back in the corridor, Harry ends the program and then looks at me.  
  
"I've wanted to show you that for a while," he says.   
  
"I'm glad you did," I tell him. "Why didn't you ever say anything before?"  
  
"I guess the longer we were away, the further away reality got. I started to forget Libby - the way she looked, walked, spoke, all of those things. And then, when you asked me about her the other day, I remembered this. In a way, it bothered me that I could forget so easily a moment that could have been the most important in my life."  
  
"Do you intend to renew your acquaintance with this woman?" Seven asks. I look at her and for the first time, I think I detect a note of jealousy underlying Seven's tone. She keeps her expression even, but I wonder if there is something there. When Seven first came aboard Voyager, Harry had definite surge of testosterone whenever the former drone came within thirty meters of him. I teased him then, perhaps to the point where his attraction to her all but vanished. Yet, never for a second did I imagine Seven could have an interest in someone that went beyond efficiency and expediency.  
  
"I wasn't going to," Harry answers. "Tom asked me a while ago and I said no, but I think - remembering this, I think I want to see her. It may not be the same, but I'll regret it if I don't. I don't want any regrets. Can you imagine us, Tom, at ninety years old and wondering what if we had done things differently? I don't want it to be like that. So I think I'm going to answer Libby's letter. I'll ask her to meet and there won't be any expectations, none. I think it's too much to ask, isn't it?"  
  
"Yeah," I answer. "Like a lot of things, it's too much to ask."  
  
"Do you plan to meet your family?" Seven asks.   
  
"I don't know," I say. "My mother and sisters, they didn't say anything in their letters."  
  
"Do they know about your father?" Harry asks softly.  
  
I lean back against the wall and rub my hand across my eyes; suddenly, I'm very tired.  
  
"I don't know. They must, right?"  
  
Several crewmembers walk by us, talking in low voices. They nod a greeting at us, but pass by us without further conversation.   
  
"Ensign Kim," Seven says. "You did not finish your story. What happened when you fell in the river?"  
  
Harry's expression immediately brightens.  
  
"I didn't? Oh, I landed in the water and it was maybe waist deep, but the current ran strong. Libby found a branch lying on the side of the bank and held it out to me. Pretty funny, isn't it?"  
  
Seven tilts her head to the side.  
  
"I fail to see the humor," she says. "But Libby sounds like a nice individual."  
  
"Oh, she is," Harry answers wistfully.   
  
"I didn't know going home would be this painful," I say. Harry looks at me in surprise.   
  
"Think about it," I continue. "We've been hoping for home for years now and now that we are, I'd rather be back in the Delta Quadrant. What do we do now? We don't even know. God, I don't even know when I will see my mother. I don't even know when I'll see B'Elanna again. I don't like this, Harry."  
  
"Tom, you've been through a lot in the last few days," Harry says kindly. "It's only natural you're having difficulty coping."  
  
"Don't," I hold up a hand and then take a step away from Harry and Seven. "`Difficulty' is an understatement. I'm still trying to figure out what remains. Do you get that? You were talking about reality before, Harry. You were saying that you'd gotten away from reality for a while and yeah, we did. It's not just coming home to family and accolades. What we remember doesn't exist anymore and that's what's difficult. The rest, those are just details. Minor details."  
  
"The death of a parent is not a minor detail," Seven retorts.  
  
"I didn't say that," I answer. "I only pointed out what I felt. Don't think I have for one second forgotten my father. Believe me, I'm never going to forget him. Not after what he's done."  
  
"What has he done?" Seven asks. I realize that she has little idea of my father's role with the Maquis and the subsequent destruction of the starbase. "I did not know your father, Lieutenant, but I believed him to be an honorable individual. Was I mistaken?"  
  
Harry and I exchange a look. It's better, I think, that the memory of Owen Paris, distinguished Starfleet Admiral, remain a hazy vision of what was, rather than what is.  
  
"No, Seven, you're not wrong," I say. "He- he was honorable in his way. And you know what? He was so proud of his granddaughter. The way he talked about her, God, I wish I could have seen the two of them together. When he talked about Linsey, he seemed less like an admiral, more like a human being. It was... nice."  
  
"That's a good way to remember him," Harry says carefully.  
  
"Perhaps I should recall my parents in a similar manner," Seven adds. She doesn't say anything else, but I know exactly what she means.   
  
"I'll help you with that letter," I tell her in one of those heartfelt moments of dysfunctional solidarity. Kind of a "I'm okay, you're okay" moment, but without the hugging.  
  
"Thank you," Seven says. "I am grateful for your assistance."  
  
"Tuvok to Paris."  
  
"Paris here."  
  
"Report to the bridge. We have arrived."  
  
He doesn't have to give us much more information. Seven's letter is going to have to wait.  
  
"Understood," I reply. "Paris out."  
  
Harry, Seven and I exchange a look and then, silently, we walk towards the bridge.  
  
****  
  
"Tuvok to Janeway."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"We are in range to dock."  
  
"Already?"  
  
Deep breaths. Long and slow.  
  
"Are you all right, Captain?"  
  
"I'm fine. Thank you for letting me know. Janeway out."  
  
I rise from the sofa, where I've been resting for the last hour or so, trying to convince myself that a good cup of coffee is all I really need to shake off my anxiety. The effect, I realize, is the exact opposite of what I'd hoped for; my hands shake as I reach for a clean uniform. I dress quickly and then take a look at myself in the mirror.  
  
Outwardly, I look every inch the regulation Starfleet officer, from the arrangement of pips on my turtleneck to my gleaming boots. Hell, you can't even tell that just over five months ago, I was the epitome of perfection, dressed steel plated armor, complete with the accessories every well-dressed drone needs: various blinking lights, tubes of varying radii and glow-in-the-dark circuitry.  
  
But the Doctor has done his work well, and there are no scars. Not any that you can see and I refuse to confess to any of the rest.  
  
I run my hand over my hair, smoothing a few stray hairs back into place. A deep breath, a quick pinch to the cheeks for color, and I'm ready to step back into the persona of Kathryn Janeway, Captain.  
  
I swallow hard as I walk down the empty corridors. You can imagine how you'll feel in a certain moment. I mean, I visualized for hours about what a homecoming would feel like. And I practiced that happy feeling. Then when I realized I wouldn't get my ticker tape parade and no one would be celebrating our return, then I practiced this homecoming - the one where I would walk alone, head held high, blinking back tears.  
  
Still, my imagination did not feel like this. Not at all.  
  
I hate reality.  
  
I arrive on the bridge to see my crew working diligently at their stations. They are calm as if coming home is something we do regularly.  
  
"Commander," I nod at Tuvok.  
  
"Captain."   
  
He gets up from my chair and moves slightly the left so I can sit down. I take a look around my bridge before settling down. They - Harry, Tuvok, Tom, and Seven - offer back nervous smiles. Moments like this need speeches, rousing Cicero-style orations guaranteed to bring everyone to a foot-stomping ovation. Yet, when I need them most, words fail me miserably.   
  
"Okay, people," I say. "This is it. Take us in, Tom."  
  
I sit down and cross my legs. Tuvok sits down next to me.   
  
"You have fulfilled your promise to the crew," he says in a low voice.   
  
"Two-thirds of them anyway."  
  
Tuvok maintains his rigid posture.  
  
"You must be looking forward to seeing your wife and children," I observe.  
  
"I anticipate our meeting with considerable joy," Tuvok says.   
  
"For what it's worth, I appreciated you. Very much."  
  
"Captain?" Tom twists around. "We have permission to dock."  
  
"Go ahead, Tom," I say. Then, in a low voice, I continue my conversation with Tuvok. "You always put logic into situations where none existed. Thank you for that clarity."  
  
"You are welcome," Tuvok responds. "Captain, I do not intend to leave until the fate of the   
Maquis is settled."  
  
I look at him in surprise.   
  
"What?"  
  
"And if you are subjected to a court martial, I intend to represent you."  
  
"Tuvok, thank you," I cover his hand with mine. "Your friendship has always meant so much to me, but I don't want to keep you from your family. Not after all this time."  
  
"I will not abandon you."  
  
"Thank you." I offer Tuvok a smile. "Are you adopting me as a reclamation project?"  
  
He tips his head towards me slightly, but doesn't offer a response.  
  
"Chakotay put you up to this, didn't he?" I lean over so that only a few centimeters separate me from Tuvok.   
  
"We did discuss your situation briefly," Tuvok admits. "But he did not have to convince me. He only suggested that he felt some trepidation regarding our homecoming. We believe there is a plot out to discredit you."  
  
"Tell me something I don't already know."  
  
The ship lurches as the docking clamps slide into place. I look up at the viewscreen and see the vast steel framework of the station. I stand up. Tom turns to face me.  
  
"Captain?" Harry asks. "Incoming message from Starfleet."  
  
I stare at the viewscreen and then turn to look at Harry. Seven, who is sitting at B'Elanna's station, stares at me.   
  
"Welcome home," I tell them.   
  
Tom begins the applause. Slow and softly, but applause all the same.  
  
It's definitely not what I imagined, but it will have to do.  
  
"Captain?" There is definite tension and urgency in Harry's voice. I look at Tuvok and sigh.  
  
"What is it, Harry?"  
  
"Incoming message from Starfleet."  
  
I sigh.   
  
"I heard you the first time, Harry," I tell him.   
  
"They're welcoming us home."  
  
Tuvok and I glance at each other. I stand up and look at Harry.  
  
"You're certain?" I ask.  
  
Yes. And they are requesting permission to board."  
  
"Requesting permission?" I frown.  
  
Harry looks uncomfortable and he shifts side to side.   
  
"Harry?"  
  
"Actually, they are requesting to board and would like you to surrender command of the ship, effectively immediately."  
  
"That's more like it," I say.  
  
Tuvok nods.  
  
"Indeed," my Vulcan friend says.  
  
"Well." I look around at my crew. I note that their boots gleam, their pant creases are perfectly lined up, and all haircuts are regulation length. They look serious, the very epitome of Starfleet protocol. If nothing else, Starfleet can't fault me for not having a professional, well-dressed crew. "It- it has been a pleasure serving with all of you."  
  
I bite my lip. I pace the bridge, very aware of the suffocating quiet around me.  
  
"Whatever happens now," I continue. "I want you all to know that I commend you for your service and loyalty. You performed your duties with honor and distinction. If I can, I will recommend all of you very highly. I wish you all good luck."  
  
I take a deep breath and then look up at Harry.  
  
"Let them board," I tell him. I sit back down, clutching the arms of my chair one last time.   
  
Tuvok looks at me.   
  
"This is not over," he says in a low voice.  
  
I smile at him.  
  
"I know."  
  
~ The End ~  
  
(to be continued in "A Fugue in Blue Minor"). 


End file.
